Dangerous Waters (25 page)

“No!” His abruptness startled her and she flinched back, catching her breath on a gasp. “No,” he repeated. “You may cut yourself or tear your gown. I will – It's best if you just –”

Clasping her upper arms she moved to the back of the hut as he scooped up his blanket with the gun still tied to it. Placing both outside he swiftly separated an armful of palm leaves. Phoebe listened to the scrape and rustle as he dragged them out.

Silhouetted against an indigo sky sequinned with stars he paused in the doorway. “Good night, Miss Dymond. Try to sleep.”

“Goodnight.” Her throat was so stiff it emerged as a whisper. Fighting tears she told herself were due simply to exhaustion and nerves Phoebe wrapped her blanket around her and lay down facing the doorway. She looked at the darker shadow blocking the threshold and, comforted, allowed her heavy eyelids to close.

Gasping, she jerked bolt upright, the scream still ringing in her ears. Jowan was trying to calm Quamin and Oscar who were shouting. Scrambling to her feet she stumbled to the doorway, her heart thudding painfully against her ribs.

In the moonlight Quamin, eyes rolling, skin gleaming with sweat, trembled violently as Jowan reassured him. The slave's obvious terror sent a shaft of fear through Phoebe.

“Is Marinette, is Marinette,” he moaned.

“It's a screech owl,” Jowan told him. “It can't hurt you.”

Muttering under his breath Oscar was trying to calm the animals that tugged against their halters, jigging nervously and bumping each other.

As Phoebe hurried forward Jowan saw her and shook his head. “No, Phoebe – “

Ignoring him she touched Quamin's forearm. He jumped as if he'd been stung. His chest was heaving as he panted and though the night air was chilly sweat trickled in rivulets down his face and neck.

“Quamin, listen,” Phoebe looked into wildly rolling eyes. “You made an offering to Marinette. You left her a gift. She will not harm you. Yes, you heard her. But she stayed in the forest. You are safe.” She held his gaze, telling him again that he was safe. After a moment his breathing slowed and the trembling eased. Wiping his hands down the sides of his trousers he bowed his head. After a moment he darted a resigned glance at Jowan.

“You whip me now?”

Phoebe pressed her fingers to her mouth.

“No!” Jowan rubbed the back of his neck. “Everybody go back to sleep.”

As Phoebe turned towards the shack he followed.

”You shouldn't have – “

“It worked, didn't it?”
Why was he so angry?

“It was dangerous.”

“Quamin wouldn't –”

Her arm was seized and he jerked her round. “For God's sake, Phoebe. You don't know what he's capable of.”

“You saved his arm. Surely – “

“You think that's enough to secure his loyalty? His trust?”

“If you don't believe that then why did you bring him?”

“Who else was there?” In the moonlight his eyes gleamed as black and hard as obsidian.

Chapter Twenty

Phoebe shifted in the saddle trying to ease the strain in her back. They had set off soon after daybreak. Now the sun was high overhead, the humid heat stifling. Surely it couldn't be much further?

As if he had divined her thoughts Oscar glanced back. “Grove Hill not far now.”

Though she wasn't looking forward to telling Rupert there would be no wedding, reaching the plantation couldn't come quickly enough. Even the roughest weather aboard
Providence
had not wearied her as much as this long ride.

Rounding a curve in the track Oscar reined in his mule and looked over his shoulder, his expression uneasy.

“What is it?” she asked Jowan whose shrug indicated he didn't know. Following him forward she heard him enquire, “What's wrong? Why have you stopped?”

Phoebe looked where Oscar was pointing. Lying on the track were chunks of feathers, some black, some white, surrounded by stones. Carefully placed amongst them were empty eggshells encircled by zig-zag lines scratched in the earth. Small patches of damp slime were all that remained of the raw eggs.

“Oh,” Phoebe gulped. She knew from her discussions with Romulus Downey that these were
obeah
signs. A shiver trickled down her spine like a drop of icy water. She turned to Jowan. “It's a warning.”

Oscar's head jerked up. “How you know that, Miss?”

Frowning, Jowan waved the question aside. “A warning? About what?”

“Telling us to go no further.”

Jowan nodded. “Obviously it's intended for the rebel Maroons or the runaway slaves.”

“What makes you think so?” Phoebe asked, fervently hoping he was right.

“How likely is it that white people would know what such signs mean? In any case they couldn't be meant for us because no one knew we were coming.”

“No, of course not. You're right.” Phoebe nodded as relief coursed through her. What he said made perfect sense. The signs could not possibly apply to them. But just supposing there was an outside chance that they did – she had come too far – in every sense -to turn back now.

Shaking his head, Oscar hauled his restive mule round. “I no cross that,” he jerked his head indicating the patterns on the track.

“We have an agreement,” Jowan reminded the guide while Quamin moaned softly, terror-filled eyes darting between them.“You are being paid to take us to Grove Hill. If you refuse to go any further you won't get your money.”

“Money?” Oscar's voice climbed. “Money no good if you is dead. This is bad place: bad magic. I don't go there. I go home.”

“You can't!” Phoebe cried.

“Yes, miss, I can. I is a free man. You want stop me? You shoot me.” Yanking on the rein he swung his mule round and kicked it into a gallop.

Helpless, Phoebe stared after the disappearing figure.

“Well?” Jowan barked at Quamin. “Are you going to run away too?”

Trembling violently, sweat streaming in rivulets down his face and neck, the slave shook his head. “N-no, massa. Me slave. Me run, me dead.”

In the brief silence, Jowan's gaze caught and held Phoebe's. “Look, are you sure – ?”

“Yes,” she didn't wait for him to finish. “Oscar said it isn't far. We'll go on.“ Having embarked on this journey, involving him against his will, she must see it through. But she was careful to guide her pony around the edge of the track so as not to disturb the feathers, shells and stones. Watching Jowan and Quamin do the same she felt relieved. She wasn't sure if she believed in the power of
obeah.
But the people who had made those patterns did. It cost nothing to show respect.

At last they reached the boundary fence with its tall solid wood gates. Quamin jumped down and opened one gate, holding it wide as Phoebe led the way through. Once inside she halted her pony, surveying the estate spread before her across a broad shallow valley. The way it was laid out – with the mill, workshops and other buildings forming a hub at the centre of the cane fields – meant that the slaves had the same distance to walk no matter which field they were working in.

The big house stood on a grassy knoll to her left. A cattle pen flanked the huddle of workshops and sheds. A short distance away two lines of huts with palm-leaf thatch reaching almost to the ground were shaded by coconut trees and thickets of bamboo. They were backed by vegetable plots, chicken runs and pig pens. A stream ran along the lower side.

A large area of cane had already been cut: the bare burned earth fuzzed green with fresh shoots. The rest still stood, dwarfing slaves whose machetes flashed in the sun felling cane stalks twice their height then cutting them into manageable lengths. Women followed, picking up the cut pieces and loading them onto carts drawn by pairs of oxen led by a small boy. These plodded continuously between field and mill yard where the carts were unloaded. More slaves fed the stalks into the vertical rollers geared to a long pole harnessed to a mule that trudged in an endless circle.

A white man in shirtsleeves, breeches and boots, a wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes, rode along the line of field slaves. He stopped his horse to speak to the one on the end. The man straightened. He nodded, gesturing towards the working gang. The rider sat for a moment, then leaning from the saddle he struck the slave across the face with his whip.

Phoebe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The other slaves didn't even look up.

“Come,” Jowan murmured, placing his horse between her and the field. Feeling queasy Phoebe urged her pony forward. Was that Rupert? Why had he hit the man? The other slaves had not faltered in their rhythmic slashing of the tall canes. Did that mean they were used to it? That violence was commonplace?

As they rode towards the house it was not only the heat that bore down on her like a weight. What manner of men were Rupert Quintrell and his father?
How much – or how little – had her uncle known about them?

She had expected – and tried to prepare herself – for life here to be different from anything she had known in Cornwall. Aboard the packet she had made a real effort to understand when Mr Clewes and Mr Matcham talked about the difficulties plantation owners faced trying to control slaves who vastly outnumbered them.

Her own profession demanded strong nerves and a strong stomach. She had grown used to sights that caused others – men as well as women – to faint dead away. But the sudden unprovoked brutality of that blow – a whip against an unarmed man – had shocked and sickened her.

The forest smells of damp earth and decaying vegetation were lost beneath new sharper odours carried towards her on the breeze – wood smoke, burnt sugar, cattle dung, and the acrid stench of sweating bodies.

Viewed from a distance the sweeping roof, verandahs and grand entrance of the large two-storey house were impressive. But as they drew closer Phoebe could see peeling paint and rotting woodwork.

Suddenly gooseflesh rose on her arms. Something was wrong here: something more than mere neglect. The house radiated an atmosphere so dark and malevolent that her heart began to race and her nerves tightened. She looked up, expecting to see a flicker of movement or perhaps a face. But though the windows remained as blank as the eyes of a corpse, she couldn't shake off the conviction that they were being watched.

Stony-faced, his manner withdrawn, Jowan dismounted at the bottom of wide steps that led up to the front door. As she watched him hand his horse's reins to Quamin then come towards her Phoebe yearned for one of his brief smiles of encouragement. Though he had no idea of the real reason she was here surely he must realise how nervous she was?

Taking the hand he offered she slid to the ground. As he released her and stepped back she shook out her gown, trying to mask sudden inexplicable dread. Telling herself she was being ridiculous, that her reaction was due partly to the long ride and partly to the prospect of the task ahead, she tried hard to pull herself together. She had no desire to impress, but couldn't help wishing she didn't feel quite so disadvantaged.

Seeing Jowan's gaze flick towards the dilapidated building Phoebe knew he would soon begin to wonder at her reluctance. She must move now, at once. If she didn't her courage would fail. There was something wrong with this house. She didn't want to go inside. But the whole point of the journey had been to do the honourable thing and tell Rupert to his face that she could not accept his proposal. Drawing a deep breath she started forward.

Jowan tugged the rusting bell-pull. After several seconds the huge front door creaked open to reveal an elderly man in grubby livery. His brown face was lined and weary, his eyes red-rimmed.

“Massa's sick,” he said before Jowan had time to speak. From the darkness behind him came the sound of women arguing, a rising scream quickly muffled, then a slammed door. “Can't see no visitors.” He started to close the door. Jowan's hand shot out, pushing it wide again.

“What's happening here?”

“That ain't yo' business.”

“On the contrary,” Jowan snapped. “It's very much my business. If your master is unwell then who is the white man on horseback in the cane field?”

“Mistah Edward, the Overseer. He come for crop. Massa send for him when he took sick. Now you –”

“I'm a doctor.” Jowan's announcement clearly startled the old man.

“Abba never sent for no –”

“Hush your mouth, Isaac.”

The old man turned as a figure pushed through the whispering group loitering in the shadows at the back of the hall.

Tall, imposing despite a simple apple-green gown covered by a white apron, her skin was the colour of creamed coffee. A length of matching green muslin was wrapped around her head hiding her hair. She was, Phoebe guessed, no more than twenty-five yet had the manner and presence of a woman twice that age. Like the manservant's her face was ravaged by exhaustion.

“We don't need no doctor. I look after massa.”

“Is that so? And who are you?” Jowan enquired. His cool tone brought quick colour to the woman's face. But she stood her ground, her chin lifting.

“Me name is Abba. I keep house for massa. You a real doctor?“ she demanded.

“I am.”

“What for you come? Nobody send for you.” Her gaze flicked to Phoebe. “What for you bring her?”

Phoebe stepped forward. “My name is Dymond. I've come to –”

“Miss Dymond is my ward and therefore under my protection,” Jowan broke in, startling her. What was he doing? But his interruption and the swift glance that accompanied it contained a warning. Instinctively trusting him she quickly changed what she had been going to say.

“Mr William Quintrell was my uncle's guest in Cornwall. It was arranged that I visit Grove Hill,” She said carefully. “Surely you were told I was coming?”

“Mr
William
? But –” Abba was interrupted by another rising scream. As the sound faded to a moan she turned to Phoebe, her features devoid of expression. “Go back where you come from, miss. This ain't no place for you.”

“On the contrary, I have a particular reason – “

“You hear what I say? You don't belong here.”

“Right now I do,” Phoebe said quietly. “I'm a midwife.”

“Phoebe,” Jowan was terse. “What are you –”

“Midwife?” Abba repeated above a rustle of whispers from the women watching at the back of the hall.

Phoebe nodded. “Quamin,” she called to the slave who was waiting on the steps. “Will you bring my medicine chest?”

One of the women called out something Phoebe didn't understand. Without looking round, the housekeeper raised a hand and the woman fell silent.

“You got white medicine?” Abba's eyes narrowed.

Phoebe shook her head. “I use herbs.” This evoked another rustle from the watching women. “How long has she been in labour?”

“Too long.” Abba said flatly. Her voice dropped. “Look, it ain't safe here.”

“Isaac said Mr Quintrell is ill. If that is so then Dr Crossley should be taken to him at once.” She wanted to get the whole wretched business over with as quickly as possible. She turned to Jowan. “Shall I – ?”

“No,” Abba interrupted sharply, shooting Jowan a look Phoebe didn't understand. “Miss don't go up there. No good for a lady.”

“But – “

“Try to contain your impatience,” Jowan murmured, making Phoebe wince.
If he only knew.
“It is unlikely Mr Quintrell will be prepared for visitors. Nor would it be wise for you to be exposed to any risk of infection.”

“What about you?” Phoebe could have bitten off her tongue as she felt hot colour climb her throat. She had not intended nor did she wish to accompany him. When she spoke to Rupert Quintrell it would be in private.

“You may be sure I will take all the necessary precautions.” The note of reprimand increased the warmth in her cheeks.

“That was what I was trying to suggest,” Phoebe said. “Shall I leave you some antiseptic lotion?”

“Thank you, but should I need it I'll send for it.” He turned. “Isaac, take me to your master's room.” He paused beside the housekeeper. “I'd be obliged if you will provide Quamin with hot water and clean towels. He can bring them to me. Obviously you have other matters to attend.” As the old manservant led Jowan up the curving staircase another scream rang out.

Phoebe turned to the housekeeper. “If you will allow me I may be able to help.”

“A slave?” Abba's expression reflected incredulity and suspicion.

Phoebe nodded. “I will help any woman in labour.”

Abba shrugged. “You the lady. I can't stop you.”

As they crossed the dark and dusty wood floor Phoebe's gaze was drawn to a small table. On it stood a lamp made from a black-painted calabash filled with oil. As they passed Phoebe saw that the burning wick floated above two splinters of bone arranged in a cross.