Page 33 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
T he storm raged for what felt like hours, but Sidney couldn’t be certain of how long it truly lasted.
Rain pummelled the ship, mingling with crashing waves that threatened to swamp the boat despite its great size.
Sidney had managed to save Docila from going overboard, but he was nearly certain that not everyone had been as lucky.
Sidney surveyed the damage as dawn broke over the Seraphim, its pale light revealing the full extent of the storm’s fury.
Splintered wood, torn canvas, and frayed rope littered the deck, evidence of the violent hours they had endured.
The mainmast stood intact, a small miracle given the force of the gale, but the foremast had sustained damage that would require significant repairs.
The ship rode lower in the water than it should, suggesting leaks that would need immediate attention.
But it was not the physical damage that weighed heaviest on Sidney’s mind as he moved methodically across the deck, cataloguing their losses and prioritizing repairs.
It was the human cost. Young Williams and Old Tom were missing, likely swept overboard during the height of the storm when visibility had been reduced to nothing and the roar of wind and wave had drowned out any cries for help.
Two more men — Harris and Cooper — lay injured below, Harris with a broken arm and Cooper with a gash across his scalp that had finally stopped bleeding but left him disoriented and weak.
Four men out of his crew of twenty-two. Nearly a fifth of his command, lost or incapacitated in a single night.
Each face flashed through Sidney’s mind as he worked, his hands moving automatically through the familiar tasks of securing loose cargo and assessing structural damage.
Williams had been barely twenty, on his second voyage with the Seraphim, eager to learn and quick to laugh.
Tom had been with Sidney for years, a steady presence who could predict the weather with uncanny accuracy based on nothing more than the feel of the wind and the smell of the air.
Gone. Just like that.
No bodies to bury, no proper farewell. Just empty spaces where men had once stood, gaps in the crew that could never truly be filled, even when they recruited replacements at the next port.
“Captain.” Fletcher’s voice interrupted his grim thoughts. “The men need orders, sir. And direction.”
Sidney nodded, gathering himself. His personal grief must wait; the surviving crew needed leadership now more than ever.
“Have Turner and his team inspect the hull for leaks. Priority on any that might threaten our buoyancy. Jenks and his men should assess the damage to the rigging and sails — determine what can be salvaged and what will need complete replacement.”
Fletcher nodded, making mental notes. “And the missing men, sir? Should we —”
“Note their names in the log,” Sidney interrupted, his voice controlled but tight. “Record the circumstances as best we can determine them. Their personal effects will be catalogued and held for their families, as is our custom.”
It was the standard procedure, cold comfort though it might be. The sea rarely returned those it claimed, and they had neither time nor resources to search for bodies that might be leagues behind them by now, if they had not already sunk beneath the waves.
“Aye, Captain,” Fletcher agreed softly, his own weathered face etched with sorrow. He had known the men longer than Sidney, had shared countless watches and ports of call with them. “And the injured?”
“Dr. Franklin is attending to them, with Miss Archer’s assistance,” Sidney replied, glancing toward the hatch that led below. “Harris’s arm is set, and Cooper is resting. Both should recover, though Harris will be limited in his duties for some weeks.”
Fletcher followed his gaze, a hint of something like approval crossing his features. “She’s been a steady hand with the wounded, sir. No squeamishness, no hysteria. Just calm efficiency.”
It was the highest praise Fletcher could offer, and Sidney nodded in acknowledgment.
“She has proven herself useful in many ways,” he said, the understatement deliberate.
In truth, Docila had been remarkable in the aftermath of the storm — moving from man to man with water, bandages, and quiet encouragement, her own ordeal seemingly forgotten in her concern for others.
She had been the one to help Franklin set Harris’s arm, holding the man steady while the doctor manipulated the broken bone back into alignment.
She had cleaned and bandaged lesser injuries with practiced hands, showing a knowledge of basic medicine that surprised even Franklin, who was not easily impressed.
And through it all, she had maintained a calm demeanour that helped settle the more agitated sailors, some of whom were still shaken by their brush with death.
“The men have noticed,” Fletcher commented, a hint of warning in his tone. “Some are saying she brought us luck, that things would have been worse without her. Others...”
“Are still looking for someone to blame,” Sidney finished for him.
It was the way of sailors — when tragedy struck, they sought explanations, patterns, something to make sense of the chaos.
A woman aboard was an easy target, a convenient explanation for why the sea had turned against them.
“Make it clear that I will not tolerate such talk. The storm was a natural phenomenon, nothing more. We lost good men, but we saved the ship and most of our crew. That’s where our focus must remain. ”
Fletcher nodded, accepting the directive without question. “I’ll see to it, sir. And I’ll have Simms prepare a hot meal for all hands. The men will work better with full stomachs.”
As his first mate moved off to relay orders, Sidney returned to his inspection of the deck.
The physical labour was a welcome distraction from the emotional weight that threatened to overwhelm him if he allowed his thoughts to linger too long on the missing men.
Each knot he tied, each piece of debris he cleared, was one small step toward restoring order from chaos, one small assertion of human will against the indifferent power of nature.
But even as his hands worked, his mind kept returning to the moment when he had nearly lost Docila to the hungry sea.
The image of her clinging to the rail, water cascading over her as the wave threatened to sweep her away — it had burned itself into his memory with terrifying clarity.
He had moved without conscious thought, driven by an instinct so powerful it had overridden every other consideration.
Had he shown that same decisive action for Williams and Tom? Had he done everything possible to ensure their safety? Questions with no answers, yet they circled in his mind like seabirds around a ship, relentless and impossible to ignore.
The rational part of him knew that a captain could not be everywhere at once, that in the chaos of a storm, some losses were inevitable. But the knowledge did little to ease the burden of command, the weight of responsibility for every life aboard.
“You should rest.”
The quiet voice at his elbow startled him from his thoughts. Docila stood beside him. Her hair had been hastily braided and pinned up, dark tendrils escaping to frame a face pale with exhaustion but free of the fear that had marked it during the storm.
“There’s too much to be done,” he replied, gesturing to the debris still scattered across the deck.
“And it will still be there after you’ve had an hour’s sleep,” she countered gently. “You’ve been on deck all night. Even the strongest captain needs rest.”
Sidney started to refuse again, but something in her expression stopped him — a quiet understanding, an empathy that went beyond mere concern. “How are Harris and Cooper?” he asked instead, changing the subject.
“Resting,” she said, allowing the diversion. “Dr. Franklin says Harris’s arm should heal well, though it will take time. Cooper is more concerning — he drifts in and out of awareness. The head wound was deep.”
Sidney nodded grimly. Head injuries were always unpredictable at sea, with limited medical resources available. “And the others? The minor injuries?”
“Bandaged and returned to duty,” Docila reported. “Most were eager to get back to work. I think the activity helps keep their minds from dwelling on...” She hesitated, then finished simply, “On those we lost.”
The directness of her statement caught Sidney off guard. Most people would have used euphemisms, would have softened the reality with phrases like “those missing” or “the unfortunate incident.” But Docila spoke plainly, acknowledging the truth without attempting to diminish it.
“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Work is a mercy at such times.”
They stood in silence for a moment, side by side at the rail, looking out over the sea that had been their enemy mere hours ago and now lay deceptively calm, almost serene in the morning light.
The contrast was jarring — the peaceful scene before them at odds with the destruction around them and the grief that hung in the air like a physical presence.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Docila said suddenly, her eyes still on the horizon. “The storm, the men we lost — none of it was your doing.”
Sidney felt a flicker of irritation at the presumption that she could read his thoughts so easily, followed immediately by a reluctant acknowledgment that she had done exactly that. “I am the captain,” he said simply. “The safety of this ship and all aboard her is my responsibility.”
“Yes,” she agreed, surprising him again.
“And you discharged that responsibility with courage and skill. You saved the Seraphim and most of her crew against terrible odds.” She turned to face him fully now, her expression earnest. “But you cannot command the sea, Sidney. No captain can, no matter how experienced or dedicated. Some things are beyond human control.”