Page 51 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
Blackwell sighed theatrically. “I know you’ve identified the observation point where Alvarado’s celestial key can be properly aligned.
I know you’ve calculated that the autumn equinox — now just days away — represents our opportunity to utilize that key.
What I don’t understand is why you insist on this pointless resistance when cooperation would benefit us both. ”
“Both?” Sidney echoed, allowing a hint of genuine curiosity to enter his voice.
“I’m offering you a partnership, Sidney. Not equal, of course — given the circumstances — but generous nonetheless. Share the precise location of the observation point, assist in deciphering the celestial key if necessary, and you’ll receive a significant portion of whatever treasure we recover.”
It was a tempting proposition, or would have been to a man motivated solely by material gain. But Sidney had never pursued the Spanish gold out of simple greed. It represented something more — security for his future, validation of friendships forged through shared purpose.
And now, there was Docila to consider — her safety, her future, the unspoken possibilities that had begun to develop between them. The treasure meant nothing if it came at the cost of betraying her trust, abandoning her to whatever fate awaited her on the unfamiliar shore where he had sent her.
“You know my answer,” Sidney said quietly, meeting Blackwell’s gaze without flinching.
Blackwell studied him for a long moment, something like regret flickering briefly across his features. “I do,” he acknowledged. “Which leaves us with less pleasant alternatives.”
The next hours passed in a haze of pain and defiance, a contest of wills between two men who had once called each other friend.
Sidney retreated into techniques learned during his naval training — mental disciplines that allowed him to endure what could not be escaped, to maintain his resolve despite the body’s desperate plea for relief.
Through it all, he held to one certainty, one truth that sustained him: Docila was safe, beyond Blackwell’s reach, carrying the knowledge that would lead to El Dorado’s treasure if only she could reach the observation point before the equinox alignment occurred.
Her face appeared in his mind’s eye during the worst moments — studying charts in the lantern light of his cabin, her expression intent with scholarly focus; standing at the rail after the storm, sunrise gilding her profile; laughing at some shared observation, her eyes alight with intelligence.
It was this image — Docila as she might be in a future uncomplicated by present dangers — that gave him strength to endure. Whatever pain Blackwell inflicted now was temporary. The betrayal of Docila’s trust, the abandonment of their shared quest, would be a wound from which he might never recover.
Finally, even Blackwell’s determination flagged.
“Enough for now,” he said, wiping his hands with fastidious care.
“Consider your position overnight, Sidney. Tomorrow we’ll resume our discussion with additional participants — perhaps seeing the suffering of your crew will overcome this misplaced stubbornness. ”
He left Sidney bound to the chair, alone in the cabin. The threat against his crew was real and immediate, a responsibility he could not easily dismiss. Yet the alternative — betraying Docila, surrendering the treasure to Blackwell’s ruthless ambition — was equally unacceptable.
As night deepened, Sidney forced himself to focus on the practical problem of escape. The ropes binding his right wrist had loosened fractionally during his struggles, creating a minute space that might be exploited with patience and determination.
Working silently in the dim light of the single lantern left burning, Sidney began the painstaking process of creating additional slack, rotating his wrist in tiny increments that gradually expanded the gap between rope and skin.
Each movement sent fresh pain through abused muscles, but he persisted with single-minded focus.
Hours passed in this careful effort. Finally, when his arm felt leaden with exhaustion and his wrist raw from constant friction, Sidney felt the bindings give way enough to slip his hand free.
From there, releasing the other restraints was the work of minutes. Freedom brought a rush of renewed determination, tempered by the practical assessment of his situation. He was alone, unarmed, aboard an enemy vessel with an unknown number of hostile crew between him and any hope of escape.
Methodically, he searched the cabin for anything that might serve as a weapon, finding little beyond a letter opener. The cabin’s windows offered a potential route of escape, large enough for a man to squeeze through if the frame could be removed.
But first, he needed to know what had become of the strongbox. Creeping to the cabin door, Sidney listened intently for any sound from the passageway beyond. The soft, rhythmic breathing of a man asleep at his post confirmed his suspicion of a guard, but suggested an opportunity.
Moving with deliberate stealth, Sidney eased the door open just wide enough to slip through. The guard stirred slightly at the faint sound, but did not wake. It was the work of seconds to secure the cutlass leaning against the wall, its familiar weight providing a measure of comfort.
Sidney found a small service ladder leading up to a hatch accessing the quarterdeck. The hatch opened silently, and he emerged into the cool night air, carefully surveying his surroundings.
To his immense relief, the Seraphim remained alongside, the two vessels still connected by grappling lines. In the faint moonlight, he could make out figures moving on her deck — Blackwell’s men maintaining watch over the captured ship and her crew.
But it was an object on the chart table near the wheel that captured his attention most completely — a familiar strongbox, its lid open to reveal the charts and documents it had contained.
The sight sent a cold shock through Sidney’s veins.
Blackwell had the maps, the calculations, the precious knowledge that would lead to El Dorado’s treasure.
Had Docila been captured after all? Or had she been forced to abandon the strongbox during her escape? The uncertainty was agonizing, but there was no time to seek answers now. The officer of the watch was returning to the quarterdeck.
Decision crystallized in an instant. He would make for the Seraphim, would rally whatever crew remained aboard and attempt to retake his ship.
The charts were lost, but if he could reach the observation point before Blackwell deciphered the final clues, there might yet be a chance to claim the treasure first.
As the officer of the watch came within range, Sidney struck — a single blow with the hilt of the cutlass that rendered the man unconscious. Lowering him silently to the deck, Sidney moved swiftly to the rail where the grappling lines connected the two vessels.
Landing silently on the familiar planks of his own ship, Sidney flattened himself against the nearest cover, assessing the distribution of Blackwell’s men. There appeared to be only three guards visible on deck.
Before he could formulate a specific approach, a commotion from Blackwell’s vessel indicated his escape had been discovered. The unconscious officer had been found, the alarm was being raised. Within moments, Blackwell himself appeared on deck, his expression thunderous.
“Peters has escaped!” he shouted to his crew. “He’ll make for his ship! Stop him at all costs!”
The guards on the Seraphim’s deck snapped to alertness, drawing weapons and spreading out to search for the escaped prisoner. Sidney moved with fluid grace, emerging from cover to engage the nearest guard before the man could fully register his presence.
The guard fell without a sound, and Sidney was already moving toward the next, aware that time was his most precious resource. The second guard proved more challenging, managing to parry Sidney’s initial strike and call out a warning.
The third guard, alerted by his comrade’s shout, approached more cautiously, keeping Sidney at bay while reinforcements poured from Blackwell’s ship onto the Seraphim’s deck. The odds, already unfavourable, were becoming impossible with each passing second.
Sidney backed toward the starboard rail — the side opposite from Blackwell’s vessel — calculating the distance to the water and his chances of swimming to shore. It was a desperate gambit, but it represented his only remaining hope of escape.
As he prepared to make this final leap, his gaze was drawn irresistibly to Blackwell, who stood at the rail of his own ship watching the scene unfold.
In his hand was one of the charts from the strongbox — not just any chart, but the crucial document containing the celestial key and the coordinates derived from Docila’s memory of her father’s medallion.
The sight was both devastating and strangely liberating.
The charts were lost, yes, but the knowledge they contained remained secure in Sidney’s mind — the location of the observation point, the timing of the celestial alignment, the clues that would lead to El Dorado’s treasure.
And if Docila had escaped, if she waited somewhere along the shore as he desperately hoped, they might yet reach that point before Blackwell could fully decipher the information he had captured.
“This isn’t finished, James,” he called, his voice carrying across the narrowing gap between the vessels as Blackwell’s men closed in from all sides. “Not by any measure.”
Then, with the fluid movement of a man who had spent his life at sea, Sidney vaulted over the Seraphim’s rail into the dark waters below, disappearing beneath the surface just as a volley of pistol shots tore through the space where he had stood moments before.
As he struck out for the distant shore, one thought burned brighter than all others in Sidney’s determined mind — not the treasure they sought, not the ship and crew he had been forced to leave behind, but Docila, and the desperate hope that she had escaped Blackwell’s grasp to await him somewhere along the coast that now represented their only path to salvation.