The dock-master, a man named Mr. Higgins, stared at the ledger. Gabrielle had finished the audit in twenty minutes. She hadn't just found the missing three percent; she’d pointed out a systematic "rounding error" that the previous clerk had been using to skim off the top.
"You’ve a cold way about you, Gabe," Higgins muttered, handing her a small pile of copper and silver coins. "But your math is clean. Cleaner than a whistle."
"Accuracy isn't 'cold,' Mr. Higgins. It’s just correct," Gabrielle replied. She tucked the coins into a hidden pocket she’d sewn into the lining of her buckskin breeches.
She spent the next three days systematically mapping Norfolk. She didn't draw pictures; she drew grids.
The Blacksmiths: Noted for their proximity to the coal docks (good for heat/smelting).
The Apothecaries: She’d visited three. They were mostly selling "patent medicines" that were 90% alcohol and opium. She noted which ones had the best glassware. She needed that glassware if she was going to distill high-proof cleaning alcohol.
The Tallow-Chandlers: Essential for soap-making supplies.
Sitting on a crate of salted pork, she opened her journal. Her handwriting was tiny and cramped to save space.
Entry 14: Chemical Logistics
Found a source for potash near the timber yards. Need to secure high-proof grain spirits for antiseptic. The "medicine" here is medieval. If I get an infection, I'm dead. Priority: Distillation setup.
She looked up as a group of British sailors moved through the crowd. They were "Press-Gangs" in spirit, if not in official action—hard-eyed men looking for "volunteers." Gabrielle pulled her cap lower. She looked like a scrawny, efficient boy who knew how to work. That made her a prime target for a ship looking for a servant or a "loblolly boy" (a surgeon's assistant).
The Detail that Changed Everything
As she was sketching the draft of a new map of the wharf, her "tomboy" ears picked up a conversation between two men in expensive wool coats.
"The Indefatigable is short-handed," the taller one said, his British accent sharp as a razor. "Pellew is losing men to scurvy and yellow jack faster than he can replace them. They’re looking for anyone with 'medical inclinations' who isn't a complete drunkard."
Gabrielle’s pen stopped.
She knew the history—scurvy was solved by citrus, but the "medical inclinations" of 1800 usually involved saws and unwashed bandages. If she could get onto a ship like the Indefatigable, she’d have access to a controlled environment, a steady (if gross) diet, and a way to cross the Atlantic.
More importantly, her journal was full of formulas for soap and basic antiseptics. In a wooden ship filled with 500 men, cleanliness wasn't just a virtue; it was a superpower.
"Yellow jack," Gabrielle whispered to herself. Yellow fever. She knew it was mosquito-borne—something these men wouldn't realize for another century.
The Decision
Gabrielle closed her journal. She had enough maps. She had a little money. And she had a determination to find a place where her skills wouldn't be wasted on a dock-master's ledger.
She headed toward the "Grog & Anchor," the tavern where the naval officers were known to recruit. She didn't do jokes, she didn't do small talk, and she didn't look like a girl. She just looked like a boy who knew exactly how to stop a fever.
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