Page 52 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
“H
old still,” Docila murmured, her fingers working with gentle precision as she wrapped a clean strip of linen around Sidney’s lacerated wrist. “The salt water may have cleansed the wounds, but they still need proper dressing.”
The small coastal fishing hut that had become their temporary sanctuary smelled of dried fish and sea salt, its weathered planks offering minimal shelter against the cool night air.
A single lantern cast long shadows across the rough-hewn table where Sidney sat, his face etched with exhaustion and the lingering effects of Blackwell’s interrogation.
It had been near dawn when Docila, keeping anxious watch from the beach where she had found refuge, spotted a lone figure emerging from the waves.
The sight of Sidney, battered but alive, had sent her racing across the sand with a cry that contained all the fear and hope she had suppressed during the long hours of waiting.
“I won’t let us fail,” she said softly, securing the bandage with a neat knot. Her eyes met his, steady and determined despite the dark circles beneath them that spoke of her own exhaustion. “Not after everything we’ve endured. Not after how far we’ve come.”
Sidney’s hand turned beneath hers, his fingers curling to capture her own in a brief, grateful squeeze. “Blackwell has the maps,” he reminded her, the words carrying the weight of what seemed an insurmountable obstacle. “And the Seraphim. And most of our crew.”
“But he doesn’t have us,” Docila countered, refusing to surrender to despair. “And he doesn’t truly understand the charts. Not without your knowledge and my memory of the medallion.”
She moved to his other wrist, carefully cleaning the raw abrasions left by the ropes that had bound him. Each mark on his skin, each bruise and cut that testified to his resistance, stirred in her a complex mixture of admiration and protective fury.
“I had to leave them behind,” Sidney said, his voice low with the burden of command. “Fletcher, Turner, the rest of the loyal men who stood with us. I had no choice if I was to have any hope of reaching you, of continuing our quest.”
“They would understand,” Docila assured him, her touch lingering on his wrist in a gesture meant to comfort as much as to heal. “And we will find a way to rescue them once the treasure is secured.”
As dawn’s pale light began to filter through the hut’s single window, Docila finished tending Sidney’s injuries and moved to retrieve something carefully wrapped in oilcloth – a parcel she had managed to bring with her during her escape from the Seraphim.
“I couldn’t save the strongbox,” she explained, unwrapping the cloth to reveal several charts.
“Before Blackwell’s men broke into your cabin, I managed to grab the most crucial charts before they could search thoroughly.
They got some of the documents — I saw them carrying charts when they left — but not these.
Not the ones that contain the real location.
And my drawings of the medallion are here too.
I couldn’t let them take it all. It was worth trying to save your hunt. ”
It was a remarkable feat, speaking to both her scholarly training and her presence of mind during crisis. Sidney traced the markings with a finger still bearing the tremors of recent ordeal, his tactical mind already working through the implications of this unexpected advantage.
“Blackwell will head directly for the southern promontory,” he reasoned, thinking aloud.
“He has the original charts, but lacks the insight we’ve gained about Alvarado’s false trail.
He’ll follow the historical accounts to the location where the supposed shipwreck occurred, wasting precious time searching for an observation point that doesn’t exist.”
“While we make for the true location,” Docila finished, catching his line of thought with the intuitive understanding that had become characteristic of their partnership. “The northern headland, where the medallion’s coordinates actually point.”
Sidney nodded, renewed determination replacing the momentary despair that had threatened to overwhelm him upon learning of the maps’ capture. “But we’ll need a vessel. And men to sail her.”
“There’s a small port town less than five miles up the coast,” Docila said, having gathered what information she could during her brief time ashore. “Fishing vessels primarily, but perhaps something suitable could be hired.”
Sidney considered their options with the pragmatic assessment of a man accustomed to solving problems at sea.
“We need only a handful of experienced sailors for a vessel of modest size. The equinox is just three days away – we’re not sailing to England, merely along the coast to the observation point. ”
“Could we manage with just the two of us?” Docila asked, though she already suspected the answer.
“Possible, but dangerous,” Sidney replied, confirming her assessment.
“Coastal navigation requires constant attention, especially in waters as treacherous as these. No, we need at least a minimal crew.” He paused, a new thought occurring to him.
“Did you encounter anyone during your time ashore? Anyone who might be sympathetic to our cause, or at least willing to work for fair wages?”
Docila hesitated, then nodded. “The fisherman who owns this hut – he’s away on an extended trip, which is why I chose it for shelter.
But I met several others in the small settlement just beyond the dunes.
One man in particular, Mateo, seemed interested when I mentioned potential employment on a short coastal voyage. ”
“Interested enough to introduce us to others who might join such a venture?” Sidney pressed.
“Possibly,” Docila allowed. “But Sidney, we have very little to offer as payment. What funds I carried were lost with my belongings aboard the Seraphim.”
Sidney’s hand moved to the inner pocket of his salt-stained coat, extracting a small leather pouch that had somehow remained secure during his desperate swim to shore.
“A captain learns to prepare for all contingencies,” he explained, loosening the drawstring to reveal several gold coins. “Not a fortune, but enough to hire a small crew for a brief voyage. I’ve kept this emergency reserve on my person since my first command.”
The glint of gold represented hope, a tangible resource that might yet allow them to continue their quest despite Blackwell’s apparent victory.
Docila felt a surge of admiration for Sidney’s foresight, for the methodical preparation that characterized his approach to command even in the most desperate circumstances.
“We should leave for the settlement immediately,” she suggested, already gathering the precious chart copies to secure them once more in the protective oilcloth. “Time is our most precious commodity now.”
The small fishing settlement was stirring to life as they approached, the early morning light revealing a cluster of modest dwellings set back from the shore, small boats drawn up on the beach awaiting the day’s work.
Docila led the way toward a weathered structure that served as the village’s sole tavern and gathering place, where she hoped to find Mateo and others who might be persuaded to join their hastily assembled expedition.
The tavern’s interior was dim after the brightness of morning, the smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke hanging in the air.
Several men sat at rough wooden tables, breaking their fast with bread and strong coffee before heading out to sea.
They looked up as the strangers entered, curiosity and caution evident in their weathered faces.
Docila spotted Mateo at a corner table and approached directly, Sidney a reassuring presence at her shoulder. The fisherman recognized her immediately, his initial smile of greeting fading to concern as he noted Sidney’s obvious injuries and their general air of urgency.
“Senorita Archer,” he acknowledged, rising politely though his expression remained wary. “I did not expect to see you again so soon. And with company, I see.”
Sidney stepped forward, extending his hand in the universal gesture of respect between men who make their living from the sea.
Mateo hesitated only briefly before accepting the handshake, his shrewd eyes assessing the captain with the careful judgment of one who knew the difference between ordinary seamen and those who commanded vessels through skill and natural authority.
“Miss Archer told me you might be available for hire,” Sidney didn’t bother with idle chatter, getting to the point quickly.
“What kind of voyage?” Mateo asked, gesturing for them to join him at the table.
Sidney outlined their needs with diplomatic care – a modestly sized vessel capable of coastal navigation, a small crew of experienced hands, a departure within hours rather than days.
He offered a generous sum, half to be paid immediately and half upon completion of the journey, with a significant bonus should they reach their destination by the specified time.
“A great hurry for what you describe as a simple coastal expedition,” Mateo observed, shrewd enough to recognize that more was at stake than Sidney had revealed. “And you yourself look like a man who has recently encountered significant... difficulties.”
“The nature of our business requires both discretion and haste,” Sidney acknowledged, neither confirming nor denying the implied question about his condition. “But I assure you, what we propose involves nothing illegal, nothing that would bring trouble to you or your community.”
Mateo considered this, his weathered fingers tracing patterns in the condensation left by his coffee mug.
“There is a vessel that might suit your needs,” he said finally. “The Santa Clara, owned by my cousin Miguel. Fast enough for coastal work, small enough to be managed by a minimal crew. As for men...”