Page 39 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
T he silhouette of the pursuing vessel grew clearer against the horizon, its shape becoming more distinct with each passing minute. Docila stood at the starboard rail, her fingers digging into the weathered wood as she watched the ship cutting through the waves with unmistakable purpose.
Despite Sidney’s instruction to remain below, she had followed him to the deck, unwilling to hide while a new threat emerged. Now, as the crew scrambled around her in organized chaos, she felt her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
The vessel was sleek and fast, its three masts carrying full sail to catch every whisper of wind. More concerning were the unmistakable outlines of gun ports along its hull — this was no merchant ship on a peaceful trading mission.
“Armed,” Sidney murmured beside her, his spyglass trained on the approaching vessel. “Heavily armed, but flying no colours I can identify.”
Fletcher stood at his captain’s shoulder, his weathered face grim in the harsh sunlight. “Privateer, perhaps? Or worse?”
Sidney collapsed the spyglass with a sharp click. “No honest vessel pursues another with such determination. Whether privateer, pirate, or something else entirely, their intentions are clear enough.”
Docila swallowed hard, forcing down the fear rising in her throat. “Could it be Blackwell? The rival you mentioned?”
Sidney’s jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his concern. “Possible. He has resources, connections in ports throughout these waters. Word of our course could have reached him.”
“Or it could be someone else entirely,” Docila said quietly, giving voice to the fear that had taken root the moment she spotted the pursuing ship. “Someone sent by my uncle.”
The possibility hung between them like a physical presence. If Hugo Archer had somehow discovered her whereabouts, had sent agents to retrieve his wayward niece and the inheritance she represented...
“We won’t know until they’re upon us,” Sidney said, breaking into her spiralling thoughts.
“And I have no intention of allowing that to happen.” He turned to Fletcher, his voice taking on the crisp authority of command.
“All hands to stations. Full sail — every scrap of canvas we can manage without straining the masts.”
Fletcher nodded, already moving to relay the orders.
The deck erupted into heightened activity as men scrambled up the rigging, unfurling additional sails that had been kept furled during their cautious navigation of these waters.
Others rushed to adjust the lines, ensuring every sail was positioned to capture the maximum wind.
Sidney strode to the helm, taking position beside the helmsman. “Mr. Turner, what’s the fastest course we can set from here?”
The quartermaster consulted the charts spread before him on a small table lashed to the deck. “Southeast passage might give us an advantage, Captain. Narrower channels, more manoeuvrability for a ship of our size. Risky in these waters, but —”
“Plot it,” Sidney interrupted, his gaze steady on the horizon where their pursuer continued to gain ground. “I know these waters well enough to navigate the hazards. What I cannot outfight, I intend to outsail.”
Docila remained at the rail, watching as the distance between the ships steadily diminished despite the Seraphim’s increased speed.
The pursuing vessel was faster — built for chase rather than cargo, with lines that cut through water like a blade through silk.
Even with every sail deployed, the Seraphim might not be able to outrun such a craft.
The realization brought a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze.
If they were caught, if the ship belonged to someone sent by Uncle Hugo, she faced the prospect of being forcibly returned to England, to the fate she had fled so desperately.
Marriage to a man who repulsed her, a life constrained by her uncle’s greed and cruelty, the loss of whatever fragile freedom she had carved for herself aboard the Seraphim.
And Sidney — what would become of Sidney and his crew if the pursuer was indeed Blackwell, come to claim the treasure they sought?
Would the rival captain stop at merely taking the maps, or would he ensure there were no survivors to contest his claim?
The thought of Sidney facing such danger because of her presence aboard, because of the complication she represented, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through her.
“You shouldn’t be on deck.”
Docila startled at Sidney’s voice so close behind her. She hadn’t heard him approach, too lost in her fears to register his movement from the helm.
“I won’t hide below while others face danger,” she replied, echoing the sentiment that had led to her near-disaster during the storm. “Besides, I need to see what’s coming.”
Sidney’s expression softened slightly, a reluctant understanding in his eyes. “Very well. But stay clear of the working areas. The men will have enough to manage without worrying about your safety.”
Docila nodded, moving toward the quarterdeck where she would be out of the way of the crew’s urgent activities but still able to observe both their pursuer and Sidney’s command of the situation.
From this vantage point, she could see the tense set of his shoulders as he conferred with Turner, the decisive movements of his hands as he traced a route on the charts, the steady authority in his bearing that calmed the anxiety evident in the younger sailors.
His presence anchored her, providing a stability that prevented her fear from spiralling into panic.
Whatever came, Sidney would face it with the same resourcefulness and courage he had demonstrated throughout their journey.
And somehow, that certainty made her own fear more manageable, transforming it from a paralyzing force into something she could acknowledge without surrendering to it.
The ship heeled sharply as the helmsman adjusted their course, following Sidney’s command to enter the channel that might offer their best chance of escape.
Docila gripped the rail again to maintain her balance, watching as the coastline became visible to their starboard side — a rugged shore marked by rocky outcroppings and treacherous shallows.
“Captain!” called a sailor from the crow’s nest high above. “She’s gaining fast! Can’t be more than two leagues behind now!”
Sidney’s acknowledgment was a curt nod as he focused on the approach to the channel entrance, narrow and forbidding between twin headlands that jutted into the sea like guardian sentinels.
To thread the Seraphim through such a passage at speed would require precision and nerve, qualities Sidney possessed in abundance but which would be tested severely in the coming minutes.
“Steady as she goes,” he called to the helmsman. “Hold this course until my mark, then hard to starboard when I give the word.”
The crew had fallen into a tense silence, each man focused on his task with the discipline of sailors who understood that their lives depended on flawless execution.
Even Jenks, his earlier mutinous tendencies seemingly forgotten, worked with grim determination at his station, adjusting lines with practiced hands.
As they approached the channel entrance, the pursuing ship fired a single cannon — not at them, but across their bow. The thunderous report echoed across the water, a clear demand to heave to and surrender.
“They’re signalling us to stop,” Fletcher observed unnecessarily, his voice tight with tension.
“So they are,” Sidney replied calmly. “Mr. Turner, ensure our own guns are ready, should we need to return the courtesy.”
Docila felt her breath catch. The thought of cannon fire, of the devastation such weapons could inflict on a wooden vessel and the men aboard her, sent a shudder through her frame. This was no longer merely a chase — it was escalating toward armed confrontation.
“Captain,” she called, unable to contain her concern. “Surely we cannot hope to outfight them? Their guns appear superior to ours in both number and size.”
Sidney turned toward her, his expression grave but composed. “We cannot, and I have no intention of trying. But they don’t know that. The threat of resistance may give them pause, especially as we enter waters that favour manoeuvrability over firepower.”
The channel loomed before them now, the Seraphim’s prow aimed directly for the narrow passage between the rocky headlands. The pursuing ship fired again, another warning shot that splashed into the sea uncomfortably close to their stern.
“Now, Mr. Harris!” Sidney called to the helmsman. “Hard to starboard, if you please!”
The wheel spun beneath the helmsman’s hands, the ship responding with a graceful turn that brought them precisely into the mouth of the channel.
The manoeuvre was executed with such timing that Docila found herself momentarily breathless with admiration for both Sidney’s judgment and the crew’s skill.
They were committed now, the Seraphim slicing through waters that grew increasingly dangerous with hidden shoals and submerged rocks.
Sidney moved constantly between the helm and the charts, calling adjustments to their course as they navigated the treacherous passage, his voice steady and assured despite the peril surrounding them.
Docila glanced back toward their pursuer, now framed perfectly in the gap between the headlands.
The vessel had slowed, clearly hesitant to follow them into such hazardous waters without the same intimate knowledge Sidney possessed.
For a brief moment, hope flared in her chest — perhaps they would abandon the chase rather than risk their ship on unfamiliar rocks.
But the hope died as quickly as it had formed. After a brief pause, the pursuing vessel adjusted its sails and entered the channel, moving more cautiously but still with clear determination to maintain the chase.