Page 27 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
T he previous day’s entertainments — the storytelling and games that had lifted the crew’s spirits during their second day becalmed — felt like a distant memory now. What had begun as novelty had curdled into frustration overnight.
The third calm morning had dawned with an oppressive stillness that seemed to press down upon the ship like a physical weight. Three full days now without so much as a whisper of wind, and the mood had shifted dramatically from the cautious optimism of the musical evening two nights prior.
Docila had risen early, hoping against hope to find a change in their circumstances, only to discover the same glassy sea stretching in all directions, the same lifeless sails hanging from the yards like abandoned shrouds.
The mood aboard had deteriorated overnight, with men snapping at one another over the smallest matters — a misplaced tool, an accidentally bumped elbow, the last morsel of yesterday’s pudding.
But it was more than simple irritability now.
She had noticed the way conversations stopped when she passed, the suspicious glances that followed her movements across the deck.
Yesterday’s grateful acceptance of her activities had given way to something darker — whispered complaints about “unnatural stillness” and “cursed voyages.” Jenks’s poison was spreading.
She had watched from the shadows of the companionway as Sidney attempted to maintain order, his voice steady but his shoulders increasingly tense as he assigned tasks that everyone knew were unnecessary.
The inventory had been completed thrice over.
Every rope on the ship had been inspected, coiled, and stowed in perfect order.
The brass fittings gleamed from repeated polishing.
There was simply nothing left to do except wait for the wind to return — and patience was wearing dangerously thin.
The men’s grumbling had grown bolder throughout the morning. She’d overheard fragments — complaints about their course, questions about the captain’s judgment, and always, threading through it all like a malignant vine, speculation about the bad luck that followed women at sea.
When Fletcher had approached her after breakfast, his weathered face creased with concern, she knew the situation was growing dire.
“Miss Archer,” he had said quietly, “the men are getting restless. Yesterday’s entertainment helped for a time, but now Jenks has been whispering again, and others are starting to listen.
There’s talk of... well, of changing course, finding the nearest port.
” His voice dropped even lower. “I fear that if we remain becalmed another day, they might take matters into their own hands.”
He hadn’t needed to finish the thought. Docila understood the dangers of idle men confined in close quarters, their frustrations building with no outlet. She had seen it before, though never in such extreme circumstances.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she had promised. “Perhaps we can try something different today — something more engaging than yesterday’s activities.” Fletcher had nodded gratefully, relief evident in his expression. “Anything would help at this point, miss. Anything at all.”
Now, standing on the main deck with dozens of pairs of eyes fixed on her — some curious, some sceptical, a few openly hostile — Docila felt a momentary flutter of doubt.
What if her efforts failed? What if the men resented her presumption in organizing them? What if her presence only inflamed the superstitious fears that Jenks had been cultivating?
But there was no time for doubt. The situation called for action, and she had volunteered herself. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed aside her apprehension and summoned the confident voice that had served her well in her father’s drawing room when entertaining his business associates.
“I know we’re all frustrated by this becalming,” she began, looking from face to face, meeting each man’s gaze directly.
“The waiting wears on the spirit, especially for men of action such as yourselves. But my father, who sailed these same waters for many years, always said that a sailor’s greatest skill is not in battling storms but in enduring calms.”
She saw several of the older sailors nod at this wisdom, their expressions softening slightly.
“He also believed that idle hands lead to troubled minds,” she continued. “So, with the captain’s permission, I thought we might pass the time in ways both entertaining and, perhaps, even useful.”
She paused, gauging their reactions.
The initial frowns had given way to cautious interest among most, though Jenks and a few others maintained their scowls.
Encouraged, Docila launched into her first story — the tale of a clever sailor who outwitted a sea witch by challenging her to a series of impossible tasks.
It was an old folk tale her father had often told during long voyages, one filled with wit and humour rather than terror, and she embellished it liberally with gestures and varied voices for each character.
To her relief, the men gradually settled onto the deck around her, their initial reluctance melting away as the narrative progressed.
Even some of the more suspicious sailors found themselves drawn into the tale, their expressions softening as she described the sailor’s ingenious solutions to each challenge.
When she reached the climax — the sailor presenting the sea witch with a puzzle so clever that she turned herself into a fish trying to solve it — a ripple of genuine laughter spread through the gathered crew. The sound, so rare in recent days, warmed Docila’s heart and bolstered her confidence.
“And that,” she concluded with a flourish, “is why sailors always carry a puzzle box with them on long voyages — though most have forgotten the reason why!”
The story concluded, she expected the men to drift away, their momentary diversion complete. Instead, a young sailor near the front — Hawkins, she recalled his name — spoke up eagerly.
“My grandfather had a tale about a sea witch too! Though in his telling, she was beautiful enough to tempt a man to his doom, not the crone you described.”
“Perhaps there are many sea witches,” Docila suggested with a playful smile. “Or perhaps the same witch appears differently to different sailors, depending on what they most desire... or fear.”
This philosophical observation sparked a debate among the men about the nature of sea legends, with several offering variations on similar tales they had heard in ports around the world.
The conversation flowed naturally, the earlier tensions temporarily forgotten as they exchanged stories and argued good-naturedly about which version might be true.
Seizing the opportunity, Docila suggested they make a contest of it.
Each man who wished to participate would tell a tale, and the crew would vote on which was most entertaining.
The winner would receive an extra ration of grog that evening, courtesy of the captain (a prize she desperately hoped Sidney would approve when she informed him later).
The suggestion was met with enthusiastic agreement, and soon a proper order was established, with Fletcher volunteering to act as timekeeper to ensure no single story dominated the morning.
As each sailor took his turn, Docila withdrew slightly, allowing them to entertain each other without her direction.
It was working better than she had dared hope.
The men were engaged, interested, even laughing at the more outlandish tales.
The storytelling competition had transformed the mood aboard ship from sullen frustration to something approaching camaraderie.
Even Jenks, though he declined to participate, was listening with grudging interest to a particularly harrowing tale of a ghost ship encountered off the coast of Africa.
As the day wore on and the sun climbed higher, the heat became increasingly oppressive. Docila noticed several men wiping sweat from their brows, their initial enthusiasm waning as discomfort returned. It was time for a change of activity.
“Perhaps we should rig some shade,” she suggested during a lull between stories. “And give our throats a rest. I believe the captain mentioned checking the rigging while we wait for the wind — though there might be a more entertaining way to accomplish the task.”
This proposal was met with curious glances, and Docila explained her idea for the barrel and rope game — a test of skill that would have practical applications for their seafaring duties.
The men would be divided into teams, each tasked with navigating a course across the deck while blindfolded, guided only by the directions of their teammates.
Barrels and coils of rope would serve as obstacles, requiring precise communication and coordination.
“The team that completes the course fastest wins,” she explained, “but any collision with an obstacle adds time to your score. And to make it truly challenging, no team may use the same guide words twice — you must find new ways to direct your blindfolded man each time he changes direction.”
The prospect of competition immediately sparked interest among the sailors, their natural competitiveness providing fresh motivation. Under Fletcher’s direction, they began setting up the course, arguing good-naturedly about the fairest arrangement of obstacles and the rules for judging success.
Docila stepped back, allowing the men to take ownership of the activity.
As they busied themselves with preparations, she became aware of Captain Peters watching from the quarterdeck, his expression a mixture of surprise and what might have been approval.
She offered him a small smile, which he acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head before turning away to speak with Turner.