Dangerous Waters (5 page)

So, like her aunt before her, she had sometimes left her bed in the middle of the night, never doubting her safety as she accompanied an anxious husband home and stayed however long it took to deliver his child then care for his wife. She had visited the housebound and bedridden who relied on her poultices, ointments and infusions to ease their congested lungs and painful joints.

She was aware, just as her aunt had been, that to local doctors she was an irritant. They mocked herbal remedies, dismissing them as useless. Why they should be so derisive when all the evidence proved otherwise she had no idea. It wasn't as if she was any threat to their livelihood. Few of the people she visited could afford a doctor's fee.

If her uncle had considered her adult and independent enough to live alone at home, surely she could not need someone acting as her nursemaid while she was on board a ship? But once again she had been made to feel that
she
was in the wrong, as well as ungrateful.

“I think you owe Mrs Bishop an apology,” he murmured. “She has far more experience of the world than you do. She would have said exactly the same had you given her the chance.” He looked past Phoebe. “Am I not right, my dear?”

“Indeed,” Carina nodded. “But I understand that Phoebe has no desire for my opinion. And I am not at all offended. Everything has happened very quickly, and we must make allowance for her youth.”

Phoebe clenched her teeth together. “I'm obliged to you, ma'am.” She turned again to her uncle. “Will someone have informed the surgeon of his additional duty?”

“You may rely on it.” He patted her hand. “Stop fretting. You know how to behave. Anyone spending time in your company should consider himself fortunate. And at least you will have interests in common,” he beamed. “That should make conversation easier.”

Phoebe looked at him. He couldn't be serious. Did he
really
imagine a ship's surgeon would deign to discuss medical matters with a woman, especially one of her age – or rather her lack of it? But before she could think of a suitable response he patted her hand again then released it and gestured towards the door.

“No doubt you still have a host of things to do so I'm sure Mrs Bishop won't mind if you take your leave.”

Closing the door Phoebe pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, wincing at her uncle's dismissal and the triumph in Carina Bishop's eyes.

Chapter Four

Gulls soared and swooped, shrieking and squabbling as they dived for scraps thrown overboard from incoming fishing boats. Between the shores of Flushing and Falmouth the wind-whipped waters of the inner harbour were grey-green and tipped with curls of white foam. Men were busy aboard ships of all sizes, some newly arrived, others preparing to leave. Between them punts, jolly boats and cutters darted to and from quays and jetties on both sides of the river, laden with trunks, stores and passengers. Customs officers were ferried from shore to ship and back again.

The wind carried shouts, snatches of song, the groan of windlass and winch, and the crack of unfurling canvas as it flapped in the stiff breeze before being sheeted in.

Jowan's nostrils twitched at a sharp pungent smell that cut through the reek of rotting fish, seaweed, mud and sewage. Further along the packet ship's sides, seated on a plank suspended by two ropes slung over the gunwale, a seaman was hammering oakum between two planks. His mate then painted on a thick coat of hot pitch to make it waterproof.

Handing up the bulky leather bag containing his medicines and instruments Jowan clambered aboard the
Providence
. Glancing upward he saw men balanced on ropes slung beneath the foremast's main yard working on the sail bunched beneath it. Other men were replacing rungs on the ratlines that rose in a narrowing rope ladder from either side of the ship to the mainmast top.

Wood shavings pooled around the carpenter's feet as he turned up a spar, and the sailmaker and his mate wrestled with a billow of canvas.

As Jowan stepped onto the deck he was greeted by a short, almost square man wearing grubby canvas trousers and a faded salt-stained black jacket over a blue check shirt and red kerchief.

Clasping a short length of thick rope whipped with cord at both ends, he raised one hand to his hat brim in brief salute. “Name's Hosking, sir. Arthur Hosking. I'm the bosun. You'll be the new surgeon. Mr Crossley, is it? Mr Burley said to expect you. Down below, he is.”

“Mr Burley?” Jowan enquired, picking up his bag.

“The sailing master, sir.”

Jowan wondered why the sailing master and not the captain waited to greet him. But before he could ask, the bosun turned away bellowing over his shoulder. “Williams! Gilbert!”

At the bosun's shout two barefoot men set down the cask they were carrying and straightened up. Both were clad in rags so filthy Jowan found it impossible to guess their original colour.

“Bosun?”

“Take the doctor's trunk down to his cabin and be smart about it.” He turned back, indicating the bag. “Want 'em to take that as well, sir?”

“No, I'll bring it.”

With a nod the bosun turned away and stomped off down the deck towards two seamen snarling at each other over a barrel. With lightning speed he laid the piece of rope across the shoulders of each and roared at them to get on with their work.

Jowan had wondered at the rope's purpose. Now he knew.

On the forward part of the crowded deck men were rolling casks of fresh water and barrels hauled up from chandlers' boats to the hatches to be carried below.

Jowan followed his trunk to the companionway. In front of him the gaff from which the ship's fore and aft mainsail hung was lashed to the huge boom. This was tightly secured to prevent it swinging and sweeping the busy men from the deck into the sea. To his left stood the binnacle housing the compass, and behind it the huge wheel.

The ship moved restlessly as if she wished herself free of her anchor cables. Excitement rippled through him. He was joining a world very different from the one he knew. Though
Providence
would not sail for two days, his duties began right now.

The door to the captain's day cabin was wedged open. Light streamed in through stern windows beneath which banquette seating of crimson plush stretched in a shallow semicircle the width of the cabin. It illuminated a thickset man with receding hair tied back in a short pigtail. Leaning over a table covered with books, charts and ledgers, he wore a navy coat and blue breeches that seemed to suggest a uniform but lacked the elaborate gold braid and buttons of a naval officer.

“Mr Burley?” Jowan said.

The man looked up, a frown drawing his thick brows together. “Yes?” It was curt, impatient.

Jowan offered his hand. “I'm the new surgeon. Crossley, Jowan Crossley.”

The master's narrowed gaze raked him from his bare head, serviceable brown frock, double-breasted waistcoat and buckskin breeches to his leather boots. The master's frown cleared. And as he nodded Jowan sensed his relief. What had he expected?

“Glad to see you.” Burley's handshake was brief but firm. “You've got some job on.” It sounded like a warning.

“Is Captain Deakin unwell?” Jowan enquired.

“So I understand from Andy.” As Jowan raised a questioning eyebrow Burley explained. “Andy Gilbert: master's mate. Only a lad – well, twenty-one – but a born seaman, and brave with it.” Burley's expression changed becoming unreadable. “We had a bad time voyage before last. We was chased twice
and
lost five men to fever. Captain Deakin got an infection of the lungs. He didn't sail last trip. Andy's been to visit him. Says he's still not recovered.” There was a brief pause. “He was well enough to show Andy the plans though.”

“Plans?” Jowan enquired.

“Of this new house he's having built. Some big place it is.”

“Ah,” Jowan understood. It was common knowledge in the town that while retaining nominal command and all the financial advantages that went with it, an increasing number of captains were staying at home leaving their officers to sail the packet to her destination. No doubt Burley's seafaring experience equaled that of his absent captain, and he had a mate competent to take the alternate watch. But looking at the deep frown lines and cluttered desk, Jowan guessed Burley was neither comfortable nor familiar with paperwork.

“Have you been told what your duties are?”

Jowan nodded. “One of Mr Tierney's clerks gave me a list. I'd best get started.”

Riffling among the confusion of papers Burley eventually found the sheet he sought and handed it across. “List of victuals for the crew.”

Jowan scanned it. Bread, beer, beef, pork, pease and oatmeal, all supplied in barrels. Boring perhaps, but adequate.

“The rum's kept locked up. Hosking comes to me for the key.”

“Rum?” Jowan's brows climbed. “I thought packets were dry.”

“We are, officially. But beer and water don't keep well at sea. I can't afford to have half the crew off with the squits and unable to work. So once the beer's run out they get half a pint of rum mixed with a quart of water twice a day. 'Tis a long way to Jamaica, Doctor, through dangerous waters. On the last two trips I lost a quarter of my crew through injuries, battle wounds and fever. Even with the dockyard dregs who've signed on to escape the press gangs, I'll still be shorthanded.” Passing his large hand over a face seamed and roughened by decades of exposure to wind and sun he blew a gusty sigh. “Anyhow, that's my problem. You'll have enough of your own.”

Nothing in Jowan's previous experience had prepared him for the demands and frustration of the next two days. Neither he nor his assistant, surgeon's mate Grigg, a wiry seaman in his mid-forties, slept more than four hours a night. There was too much to do.

Entering the fo'c'sle Jowan recoiled at the stench. Overall the area was thirty feet long and twenty-three feet wide. But parts of it were occupied by the galley caboose, the bosun's and carpenter's stores, pump barrels, the foremast trunk, and the crew's sea chests. In the remaining space twenty-two men had to live, eat and sleep. With no portholes or skylights in the deckhead the only sources of light or fresh air were the open hatches. What this space would be like in rough weather when those hatches were battened down did not bear thinking about.

Jowan recalled a passage from one of his medical books claiming that disease could be caused by
miasma
emitted from rotting and decayed matter. That being the case this stinking hellhole was a death trap. For though
Providence
was fitted with a urinal trough and a seat-of-ease in the angle of the bows beneath the bowsprit, reaching either in heavy seas would be a perilous journey. Jowan's nose told him that rather than risk being washed overboard, the men preferred to relieve themselves in a disgusting old steep tub in the corner.

“I want that cleaned out, and the bilge pumped and flushed through with sea water.”

“The ships downwind of us will love that,” Grigg muttered.

“Perhaps it will prompt them to take similar action,” Jowan responded.

Recognizing ominous signs of rat infestation he had Grigg put down poisoned oatcakes. Then he inspected the barrels containing the crew's food.

After nearly seven years' medical training and practice, few things had the power to turn his stomach. So when he prized the lid off a cask and saw in the stinking slimy liquid a pig's head with iron rings through its snout surrounded by tails and trotters he flinched briefly but reasoned that the men were used to it. However after inspecting the rest of the barrels and checking the weight and number against the supply bill, he realized there was a discrepancy.

“That's right, sir,” Grigg nodded. “Always is.”

“Why is that?” Jowan suspected he knew the reason. Grigg's reply confirmed it.

“Agent and chandler's perks, sir. Instead of supplying sixteen ounces to the pound they gives us fourteen, twelve, or even ten. They sells the difference and splits the profit.”

“Of course I'm aware of it,” Burley said when Jowan confronted him. “And there's not a damn thing I can do.”

“Then we must buy – “

“What with?” Burley cut in. “The victualling allowance for each man is a shilling a day and that's all spent. I haven't got no more money.”

“What about the passengers? Surely their fares – “

“Their fares are paid direct to the captain who pays the packet agent a commission. I don't see a penny of it. The passengers supply their own food. Or they pay Mossop. The passenger's steward,” Burley explained, forestalling Jowan's question. “He deals fair and straight. He'd be out of a job if he didn't. He keeps their provisions in his pantry and prepares their meals for them.” Burley rubbed his forehead. “Captains make a handsome profit every trip, whether they sail or not. But 'tisn't like that for the officers. No bleddy wonder we carry stuff to do a bit of private trading. Couldn't make a living if we didn't.” Burley didn't even try to hide his bitterness.

“So while the captain remains at home watching his new house being built – “

“
I'm
responsible for sailing this ship to Barbados and Jamaica and delivering the mail. And if the weather and a half-raw crew wasn't enough, we got to outrun Frenchie warships and privateers who'd kill us soon as look at us. The only guns we're allowed are bow and stern chasers, a couple of nine-pounders and small arms. And for that, Doctor, I get paid the same as you, not a brass farthing more. So 'tis no use asking me for money to buy more food for the crew. I haven't got it.”

Jowan's afternoon was acutely frustrating. The chandlers simply shrugged and referred him to the packet agent.

Edgar Tierney, a portly man whose immaculately tailored coat and breeches proclaimed his wealth and status, smiled blandly and shook his head.

“Mr Crossley – “

“Doctor,” Jowan corrected him. “I am a physician as well as a surgeon.”

“Indeed? Then I cannot help but wonder why, with such qualifications, you would choose the Packet Service over the Royal Navy. However, I will not inquire into matters you may prefer not to discuss.”

Jowan's hackles rose at Tierney's insinuation. But wise and wary enough not to respond he clamped down hard on his anger, raised one eyebrow, and waited.

The agent's fleshy mouth pursed in a smile but his small eyes remained cold and hard. “I was about to say – though I'm astonished such a reminder should be necessary – that you are, in fact, an
employee
of the Packet Service with a duty to care for the health of the men aboard your ship. I suggest you concentrate on that.”

“As short rations will directly affect the crew's health – “

“Don't fence with me, Dr Crossley.” Tierney cut him short. “As a newcomer you have much to learn about the way things are done. If you wish to remain in the Service you would be most unwise to involve yourself in matters that are not
directly
your concern. Acquiring a reputation for making trouble would do your career no good at all. Nor, I venture to suggest would it reflect well on your father. Surely your family's recent bereavement is a heavy enough weight for him to bear? And now,” he glanced pointedly at an ornate gold watch pulled from a pocket in his patterned silk waistcoat. “You will excuse me. I am a busy man, Doctor, with many demands on my time.”
And you are wasting it.
He did not say the words. His expression made it unnecessary.

Infuriated as much by his own helplessness as by the corrupt agent, Jowan curbed his tongue and his temper and left. Walking out of the office into the street he had a brainwave. Two hours later he climbed aboard
Providence
once more.

“Mr Hosking, could you spare two men?”

“God A'mighty,” Grigg gasped, peering over the side. “That's never butter?”

“Bleddy 'ell,” the bosun breathed, gazing down into the jolly boat bobbing alongside, laden with casks.

“And flour, and jam, and molasses,” Jowan replied, as the barrels were hoisted up and carried below.

“Dear life, doctor. How did you do it? You never made that bastard Tierney – “

“
Mr
Tierney.” Jowan corrected the bosun with heavy irony. He didn't attempt to hide his disgust and knew from the flicker in Hosking's gaze that the bosun had recognized it.