Page 50 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
T he clash of steel against steel had become the world’s only music, punctuated by grunts of men locked in desperate combat.
Sidney fought with the cool precision that had served him through countless confrontations at sea, each movement economical, each strike purposeful.
But even the most skilled swordsman could not prevail indefinitely against superior numbers, and the fresh wave of attackers swarming onto the Seraphim’s deck had tipped the balance decisively.
His primary goal had been achieved — Docila was gone, making her way below to retrieve the strongbox with its precious charts. Her safety, and the security of the knowledge they had pieced together about El Dorado’s location, were worth whatever personal cost he might now pay.
“Take the captain alive!” a voice commanded from the rail where the enemy vessel pressed against the Seraphim’s wounded flank. “Blackwell wants him unharmed!”
The order confirmed what Sidney had already guessed — this was no random pirate attack. These men served James Blackwell, his former friend turned rival, the man who had pursued Sidney’s quest with escalating ruthlessness as the final pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place.
With grim resolve hardening his determination, Sidney launched a counterattack against the three men currently engaging him, a flurry of strikes that drove them back momentarily.
But the effort cost him dearly. As he attempted to press his temporary advantage, Sidney’s foot slipped on a deck made treacherous by spilled blood, throwing him momentarily off balance.
One opponent struck his sword arm with the flat of a cutlass — a deliberate choice not to maim, but to disarm — while another kicked his legs from under him, sending him crashing to the deck with stunning force.
Before he could recover, the cold touch of steel against his throat discouraged any further resistance.
“Captain Peters,” a cultured voice observed from somewhere above him. “You’ve led us on quite the chase, I must say. Captain Blackwell will be most pleased that we’ve finally caught up to you.”
Sidney was hauled roughly to his feet, his arms secured behind him with coarse rope that bit into his wrists.
Now that capture was inevitable, he conserved his strength, his mind already calculating possibilities for escape, assessing the situation with the cool logic that had served him through countless crises at sea.
The Seraphim’s deck told a grim story of brave defence against overwhelming odds.
Several of his men lay wounded, others were similarly bound, while a few — Fletcher among them — continued to resist in isolated pockets that were rapidly being subdued.
And of Docila, thankfully, there was no sign.
She had escaped the immediate fighting, at least.
Sidney was marched across the makeshift bridge connecting the two vessels.
The enemy ship was smaller than the Seraphim but heavily armed, its deck arranged for speed and manoeuvrability rather than cargo capacity.
A figure awaited beside the wheel, his back deliberately turned as if the culmination of this long pursuit were of only passing interest.
“Hello, James,” Sidney said evenly, refusing to give his former friend the satisfaction of appearing intimidated despite his bound hands and the guards flanking him.
Blackwell turned slowly, a smile spreading across his handsome features — a smile that had once suggested shared camaraderie and mutual respect, but which now held only the cold triumph of a predator regarding its trapped prey.
“Sidney,” he replied with exaggerated warmth. “How good of you to join us at last.”
He was much as Sidney remembered from their last encounter nearly two years ago — tall and lean, with the perpetual tan of a man who spent his life at sea, his dark hair now threaded with distinguished silver at the temples.
Only his eyes had changed significantly — once alive with intellectual curiosity and genuine humour, they were now flat and calculating.
“Your methods of invitation leave something to be desired,” Sidney observed dryly, nodding toward the Seraphim where the last pockets of resistance were being suppressed.
Blackwell’s smile didn’t waver. “Necessities of our profession, old friend. You’ve led me on quite the chase these past months. Did you really think I wouldn’t discover your breakthrough regarding El Dorado’s true location? That I wouldn’t follow when you set sail with such suspicious haste?”
A chill ran through Sidney at these words. How much did Blackwell know? Had he somehow learned about the medallion, about the celestial key that would guide them to the treasure’s hiding place?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sidney replied, his face betraying nothing. “The Seraphim is on a routine trading voyage, as any inspection of her cargo would confirm.”
Blackwell laughed, the sound holding genuine amusement that did not reach his cold eyes.
“Still the same Sidney — steadfast to the point of stubbornness, loyal to a fault.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice.
“Let’s dispense with these tiresome charades, shall we?
We both know why you’re in these waters, why you’ve been consulting astronomical charts and historical records with such dedicated attention. ”
He began to pace a small circle around Sidney.
“El Dorado. Not the mythical city of gold, but the Spanish galleon that vanished with a king’s ransom in its hold.
Alvarado’s great deception, the treasure that was never truly lost — merely hidden with ingenious care, waiting for someone clever enough to decipher the clues he left behind. ”
The accuracy of Blackwell’s summary confirmed Sidney’s worst fears. This was no fishing expedition, no vague suspicion based on rumour. Blackwell knew the substance of their quest in considerable detail.
“An interesting theory,” Sidney acknowledged, giving nothing away. “But hardly unique to either of us. Men have sought El Dorado’s treasure for generations, following rumours that inevitably led nowhere.”
“Nowhere until now,” Blackwell corrected.
“Until you and your scholarly friends pieced together the truth behind Alvarado’s elaborate deception.
The falsified shipwreck reports, the coded journal entries, the celestial markers that would guide only those with the complete key to the treasure’s true location. ”
He paused, studying Sidney’s carefully neutral expression. “Oh yes, Sidney. I know far more than you might wish.”
The confirmation struck Sidney with the force of a physical blow, though he allowed no reaction to show.
Somehow, Blackwell had uncovered their research, had followed the same trail of clues to reach similar conclusions.
But the final piece — the precise coordinates revealed by the medallion’s markings — that he might still lack, if Sidney could maintain the pretence of ignorance.
“If you know so much,” Sidney challenged, deliberately goading, “why do you need me? Why not simply sail to this alleged treasure site and claim your prize?”
It was a calculated risk, but one that yielded immediate dividends in the flicker of frustration that crossed Blackwell’s composed features before he could suppress it.
He didn’t know. For all his knowledge, all his resources and ruthless determination, Blackwell still lacked the final piece of the puzzle that Docila had provided.
The realization brought Sidney a surge of hope.
If Docila had reached shore with the strongbox and its precious charts, if she could make her way to the observation point they had identified before Blackwell discovered his error and resumed the search, there was still a chance the treasure might be found.
“Let’s just say I value your expertise,” Blackwell replied smoothly. “Take Captain Peters to my cabin. Secure him thoroughly, but without unnecessary discomfort. We are, after all, civilized men engaged in a professional dispute, not barbarians.”
As Sidney was led away, Blackwell called after him: “Oh, and Sidney? Do give some thought to cooperation. It would be most unfortunate if I were forced to employ less pleasant methods of persuasion. Particularly when there are others aboard the Seraphim who might serve as motivation for your honesty.”
The veiled threat sent a chill through Sidney’s blood, followed by a surge of desperate gratitude that Docila, at least, was beyond Blackwell’s immediate reach.
Blackwell’s cabin was meticulously organized, appointed with carefully chosen luxuries. A polished desk dominated one side, its surface covered with charts that Sidney noted were hastily covered as he was escorted in.
“Secure him to the chair,” Blackwell instructed, indicating a heavy wooden seat bolted to the floor beside the desk. “Then leave us. Captain Peters and I have much to discuss.”
The guards obeyed with efficient movements, transferring Sidney’s bound hands from behind his back to the arms of the chair, securing them with additional rope that allowed minimal movement. A final length around his chest ensured he could barely flinch in movement.
When they were alone, Blackwell poured two measures of brandy from a crystal decanter, keeping both glasses on his side of the desk — a deliberate reminder of Sidney’s helpless position.
“Now,” he said, settling into his own chair and taking a sip from one glass while eyeing the other meaningfully. “Let’s discuss the location of El Dorado’s treasure like the rational men of business we are. Perhaps if our conversation proves... productive... you might enjoy some refreshment.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Sidney replied evenly. “As I’ve told you, the Seraphim is on a routine trading voyage.”