Page 48 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
D ocila’s resolve to remain below deck as Sidney had instructed lasted precisely until the next violent impact shook the Seraphim, sending several of the remaining charts tumbling from the desk.
The sounds from above had escalated — shouts of warning and defiance, the clash of metal against metal, the terrible splintering of wood as something heavy struck the ship’s railing.
These were not the sounds of a ship merely giving chase; it was the unmistakable cacophony of boarding and battle.
After securing the strongbox with the most critical charts safely inside, Docila made her decision.
She could not hide while others fought, could not remain sheltered below when Sidney and the crew faced whatever enemy had caught up to them with such determined ferocity.
Moving swiftly to the small cabinet where Sidney kept a pistol for emergencies, she hesitated only briefly before taking it, checking that it was loaded as her father had taught her years ago.
The weight of it was both familiar and terrible in her hand — a weapon meant to injure, perhaps to kill.
But the alternative — remaining defenceless if the fighting reached the cabin — was unthinkable.
The charts they had just deciphered, the knowledge that might lead to El Dorado’s treasure, were too valuable to abandon to whoever pursued them with such relentless determination.
Docila made her way up the companionway, the sounds of conflict growing louder with each step.
Emerging onto the deck, she was met with a scene of controlled chaos.
The Seraphim’s crew had formed a defensive line across the midships, armed with a motley collection of weapons — cutlasses, boarding pikes, belaying pins wielded as clubs.
Behind them, Turner directed the loading of the few small cannons the merchant vessel possessed, their muzzles trained on the ship that had drawn alongside, its grappling hooks already securing the two vessels together.
The attacking vessel was smaller than the Seraphim but heavily armed, its deck bristling with men preparing to board.
They wore no uniform, carried no flag that would identify them as naval personnel or authorized privateers.
Pirates, then, or perhaps privateers operating outside the bounds of their commission — either way, men who would show little mercy to those who stood between them and whatever prize they sought.
And at the centre of the Seraphim’s defensive line, directing the crew with calm authority even as he held a cutlass ready for the inevitable clash, stood Sidney.
His coat had been discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to allow freedom of movement, his hair tied back from his face with a leather thong.
Even in the midst of crisis, there was something magnificent about his command, his unwavering presence that steadied the men around him despite the obvious danger they faced.
Docila had barely registered these details when the first wave of attackers swarmed over the rails, met immediately by the Seraphim’s defenders in a clash of steel and shouts.
The fighting spread across the deck with alarming speed, individual confrontations breaking out as the defensive line fractured under the pressure of numbers.
Young Harrison, barely more than a boy despite his months at sea, struggled to arm himself properly, his hands shaking as he attempted to load a pistol similar to the one Docila carried. She moved to his side immediately, steadying his trembling fingers as they measured powder into the chamber.
“Like this,” she said, guiding his movements with calm precision despite the fear pounding in her own chest. “Not too much, or it may backfire. That’s right — now the ball, firmly seated but not too tight.”
Harrison nodded gratefully, his youthful face pale but determined as he completed the loading process with her guidance.
“Thank you, Miss Archer,” he managed, his voice steadier than his hands. “I — I’ve never fired at a man before.”
“Nor have I,” Docila admitted, honesty compelling her even in this desperate moment. “But we do what we must to protect the ship, to protect each other.”
She squeezed his shoulder briefly, an encouragement that seemed to lend him strength. “Find cover before you fire. Aim deliberately. And remember, they came to us — we’re defending, not attacking.”
The distinction seemed important somehow, a line between necessary action and wanton violence that her father had emphasized during the few occasions when the Minerva had faced similar threats.
William Archer had been a peaceable man by nature, but resolute in defence of his ship and crew — a balance Docila sought now as she turned her attention back to the broader conflict unfolding across the deck.
The fighting had intensified, the clash of weapons and shouts of men creating a hellish chorus that seemed to fill the world.
Through gaps in the struggling figures, Docila caught glimpses of Fletcher wielding a boarding axe with grim efficiency, of Jenks — the once-mutinous sailor now fighting with ferocious loyalty to defend the Seraphim — of Turner directing the cannon crew as they prepared to fire into the enemy vessel’s hull at point-blank range.
But it was Sidney she sought with increasingly desperate eyes, and when she located him amidst the chaos, her heart nearly stopped.
He was engaged with two attackers simultaneously, his cutlass flashing in the sunlight as he parried and thrust with the skill of a man well-versed in naval combat.
Yet even as she watched, a third opponent approached from behind, cutlass raised to strike while Sidney’s attention was occupied by the immediate threats before him.
“Behind you!” Docila screamed, her voice lost in the general din of battle.
Without conscious thought, she raised the pistol, aiming at the approaching attacker as her father had taught her during those long-ago lessons he had insisted upon despite her mother’s objections.
A lady should know how to defend herself, William Archer had maintained, particularly one who might someday inherit his business and fortune.
But before she could fire, Sidney seemed to sense the danger, ducking and spinning in a fluid movement that brought his cutlass up to block the blow meant for his exposed back.
The manoeuvre saved him from serious injury but left him momentarily off-balance, vulnerable to the two opponents he had been facing previously.
One of them seized the advantage, lunging forward with a thrust that Sidney barely deflected, the force of it driving him back against the rail with dangerous momentum. The second attacker closed in, clearly intending to overwhelm Sidney’s defence through sheer force of numbers.
Docila’s finger tightened on the trigger, but the risk of hitting Sidney in the swirling melee was too great. Instead, she did the only thing that instinct and desperation suggested — she moved forward, into the fight, the pistol now gripped by its barrel to serve as a club rather than a firearm.
“Sidney!” she called as she approached, hoping to alert him to her presence without distracting him from the immediate threats.
He half-turned at her voice, his eyes widening in a mixture of alarm and disbelief as he registered her presence on deck despite his explicit instructions to remain below.
But there was no time for recrimination or explanation — the attackers pressed their advantage, forcing Sidney to focus entirely on their coordinated assault.
Docila reached them just as one opponent maneuvered behind Sidney once more, clearly intent on repeating the tactic that had nearly succeeded moments before.
Without hesitation, she swung the pistol in a short, vicious arc that connected solidly with the attacker’s temple, sending him staggering sideways with a howl of pain and surprise.
The unexpected intervention gave Sidney the moment he needed to regain his footing, pushing away from the rail with renewed vigour to engage the remaining opponent with a series of swift, precise strikes that drove the man backward across the deck.
“What are you doing up here?” Sidney demanded as soon as there was breath to speak, his tone fierce despite the obvious advantage her intervention had provided. “I told you to stay below, to protect the charts!”
“They’re secured,” Docila replied, keeping close to his side as they moved together toward the relative safety of the quarterdeck steps. “And I couldn’t remain hidden while you all fought. I won’t be the only one aboard not defending what’s ours.”
There was no time for further discussion — another wave of attackers had breached the Seraphim’s weakening defences, spreading across the deck with determined purpose.
These were not the random movements of pirates seeking general plunder, Docila realized with sudden clarity.
They moved with coordination, with specific intent, heading not for the cargo holds or the captain’s cabin where valuables might typically be stored, but directly toward Sidney himself.
“They know,” she said, the realization sending a chill through her despite the heat of conflict. “They know you have the charts, the key to the treasure. They’re not here for general plunder — they’re here for El Dorado.”
Sidney’s expression confirmed her assessment, grim understanding replacing momentary confusion.
“Blackwell,” he said, the name containing volumes of history and betrayal. “He must have guessed our destination, realized we’ve solved the puzzle he could not.”
A cannon boomed suddenly, the Seraphim’s gun crew finally managing to fire despite the chaos of hand-to-hand combat surrounding them.
The shot struck the attacking vessel at close range, tearing into its hull with devastating effect.
Shouts of alarm rose from the enemy ship as men scrambled to assess and address the damage before it became catastrophic.