Page 54 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
D awn broke over the northern headland with a spectral beauty, mist clinging to the rocky shoreline as the Santa Clara made her final approach.
Three days of relentless sailing had brought them to their destination just as the autumn equinox arrived — the crucial day when Alvarado’s celestial key would align with the heavens to reveal El Dorado’s long-hidden treasure.
Docila stood at the bow, studying the craggy promontory rising from the sea before them. The small inlet they sought was barely visible, a narrow gap in the forbidding coastline that would have been easy to miss without the precise coordinates she had recreated from memory.
“We’ve beaten him here,” she said as Sidney joined her, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and vigilance as he scanned the horizon for any sign of Blackwell’s vessel.
Sidney shook his head, confidence evident in his posture despite his lingering injuries.
“The celestial alignment occurs today — Blackwell couldn’t have found the treasure without it, even if he had somehow divined the true location.
” He pointed toward the southern horizon.
“And that speck is the Seraphim, making her way north from the false trail at last.”
“He’s realized his error,” Docila murmured. “But too late. We have hours yet before he can reach us.”
“Hours we must use wisely,” Sidney agreed, turning to call orders to Mateo and the other fishermen who had proven themselves capable hands during their journey. “Prepare to enter the inlet on my mark. The tide is favourable, but the passage will be narrow. Every man to his station.”
The Santa Clara responded beautifully to Sidney’s command, threading the needle of the rocky inlet with precision.
As they emerged into the sheltered cove beyond, Docila caught her breath — a perfect crescent of white sand backed by dense tropical vegetation, the rising sun casting long shadows across an untouched landscape.
“It’s just as the charts described,” she breathed. “The Guardian must be that rock formation,” she added, pointing toward a stone outcropping whose profile resembled a hooded sentinel watching over the approach to the cove.
Within minutes they had lowered the ship’s boat, loading it with essential supplies — water, provisions, tools for excavation, and weapons in case Blackwell arrived sooner than anticipated.
Mateo and two of his men would accompany them to shore, while the others remained with the Santa Clara, keeping her ready for swift departure.
“We should establish a base camp,” Sidney decided, surveying the unfamiliar terrain. “Mateo, have your men secure the boat above the tide line and set up shelter near those palms. Docila and I will begin exploring for the observation point.”
As the fishermen moved to carry out their assigned tasks, Sidney turned to Docila, his voice lowering. “We have perhaps six hours before Blackwell can reach the cove. Less if the wind favours him more than I expect.”
“Then we’d better hurry,” she replied, already scanning the shoreline for any sign of human intervention — a marker, a cairn, anything that might indicate where Alvarado had intended the observer to stand when the celestial alignment occurred.
They moved inland together, following a natural path through the tropical vegetation. The morning heat intensified rapidly, the humidity pressing around them like a tangible presence. After perhaps half an hour of methodical searching, Docila paused, wiping perspiration from her brow.
“We need fresh water,” she observed. “If we’re to search effectively in this heat, we must remain hydrated.” Her gaze lifted to the rising ground ahead, where lush vegetation suggested the presence of a spring or stream. “I’ll check beyond that ridge.”
Sidney nodded, though concern flickered across his features. “Stay within calling distance,” he cautioned. “And take this.” He offered her a small pistol, loaded and primed. “Just in case.”
The weight of the weapon in her hand was a sombre reminder of the stakes they faced. With a nod, Docila slipped the pistol into the pocket of her skirt and headed toward the ridge, while Sidney continued searching for signs of the observation point.
The jungle thickened as she climbed, bright tropical flowers punctuating the endless green with splashes of vibrant colour.
The sound of running water drew her forward, and she soon discovered a small stream tumbling down the rocky slope.
As she knelt beside a clear pool, preparing to fill her flask, something caught her eye — a marking on a flat stone beside the water, partially obscured by moss but clearly not natural in its geometric precision.
Setting the flask aside, Docila carefully brushed away the moss to reveal what was unmistakably a carved symbol — three concentric circles with a vertical line extending through them, the same pattern that had been engraved on her father’s medallion.
Her heart quickened as she examined the stone more closely, finding additional markings radiating outward from the central symbol.
“Sidney!” she called, her voice carrying through the still jungle air. “I’ve found something!”
She was still tracing the lines with her fingertips when Sidney arrived moments later, dropping to one knee beside her to examine the carved stone.
“The medallion symbol,” Docila explained excitedly. “And these lines — I think they’re directional markers. Look, this one extends toward the Guardian rock we saw from the cove. And this one points inland, toward that rise.”
Sidney’s eyes lit with understanding. “A guide map,” he said, admiration evident in his voice.
“Alvarado left these markings for whoever possessed the medallion, showing them where to stand for the celestial observation.” His finger traced one of the lines.
“This must lead to the observation point itself.”
Together, they followed the indicated path, pushing through dense undergrowth until they emerged in a small clearing dominated by a flat stone platform that bore the unmistakable signs of human craftsmanship.
Steps had been cut into the natural rock, leading to a surface worn smooth by tools.
At its centre stood a stone pedestal, designed to support something — or someone — at precisely the right height to align with the horizon.
“This is it,” Sidney breathed. “The observation platform Alvarado created. At noon on the equinox, the sun will reach its zenith directly above this point. And when it does —”
“The shadow of the Guardian rock will point directly to the treasure’s hiding place,” Docila finished. “We’ve found it, Sidney. We’ve solved Alvarado’s final riddle.”
Their triumph was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the beach — Mateo, his voice urgent with warning. “Captain! A ship approaches the inlet!”
Sidney’s expression hardened instantly.
“Blackwell,” he said grimly. “He’s made better time than I anticipated.” He glanced at the sun. “We have perhaps an hour before the alignment occurs. If we can hold him off until then —”
“We’ll have the treasure’s location, even if we don’t have time to recover it immediately,” Docila concluded. “We can return later, when we have more men and better resources.”
Sidney nodded, already turning toward the path back to the shore. “I must organize our defences. Mateo and his men are courageous, but they’re fishermen, not fighters.”
“Go,” Docila urged. “I’ll remain here, observe the alignment when it occurs, and mark the exact spot indicated by the Guardian’s shadow.”
For a moment, Sidney hesitated, clearly torn between tactical necessity and reluctance to leave her alone.
“Be careful,” he said finally, his voice carrying more emotion than the simple words conveyed. “If Blackwell breaches our defences, don’t wait for the alignment — hide yourself in the jungle until I can come for you.”
As she examined the pedestal more closely, Docila discovered another carved symbol on its side, partially concealed by the angle of the stone.
Kneeling to inspect it, she found a detailed carving of a ship — unmistakably a Spanish galleon of Alvarado’s era.
Below it was an inscription in faded but still legible Spanish: “El Dorado navega para siempre en el Mar de Estrellas.”
“El Dorado sails forever in the Sea of Stars,” Docila translated aloud. The poetic phrase seemed an odd epitaph for a treasure ship, yet something about it stirred her memory.
The distant sound of shouting reached her — men’s voices raised in alarm, followed by the unmistakable crack of a pistol shot.
The confrontation had begun, sooner than either of them had anticipated.
Docila rose, torn between her duty to observe the approaching solar alignment and her desperate concern for Sidney.
Duty won, though it cost her dearly to remain at the platform while conflict raged somewhere beyond the screen of jungle.
She fixed her gaze on the Guardian rock and mentally calculated the sun’s progress toward its zenith.
Perhaps twenty minutes remained before the crucial alignment — twenty minutes during which Sidney and his improvised crew faced whatever force Blackwell had brought.
Finally, the moment arrived — the sun reached its zenith directly above the platform. Docila held her breath as the shadow of the Guardian rock shifted, elongated, and then snapped into a perfect line pointing directly toward a jumble of boulders at the edge of the clearing.
She was moving toward them even before the shadow had fully stabilized. The largest boulder showed signs of human manipulation — a seam ran along one side, too straight to be natural, suggesting the stone might pivot or slide to reveal an opening beyond.
Docila examined it carefully, searching for a mechanism that might trigger whatever system Alvarado had devised. There — a small indentation near the base of the boulder, shaped like...