Dangerous Waters (6 page)

“Yes, sir,” Hosking said expressionlessly. “But how in God's name did you get
him –
“

“I didn't. I went to the Quakers. They are very generous with charitable donations to worthy causes.”

“Old
Providence
a worthy cause.” The bosun shook his head in amazement. “Never thought I'd see the day.” He darted a glance at Jowan, gave him a brief nod, and stomped away.

“Right,” Jowan turned to his assistant. “I think it's time I took a look at the sick bay.” He had not yet had an opportunity to check the ship's medicine chest. But judging by what he had seen so far, he had little hope of finding anything useful. Thank God he had replenished his own.

Grigg blinked. “Sick bay? We haven't got one, sir.”

“So what happens to men who are ill or wounded?”

Grigg shrugged. “They either stays in their hammocks or they lie on the floor.”

Among the rats.
Jowan ducked through the hatch, his brain already racing. If Burley had moved into the captain's stateroom, then the master's cabin would be free. Situated amidships between the crew and passenger quarters and directly opposite his own it would serve.

Phoebe stood at the sink in the kitchen gulping down a strong infusion of valerian and camomile. The few mouthfuls of bread and butter she had forced down lay heavy in a stomach that ached with tension. Her heartbeat pounded while she waited with desperate impatience for the herbal tea to take effect and relieve the dread and anxiety that were stretching her nerves to snapping point.

“We'll miss you awful.” Mrs Lynas wiped her brimming eyes with the corner of her apron. “So don't you go thinking you'll be forgot, because you won't. Nothing against Mrs Bishop, but 't won't never be the same.” With a final sniff she drew a deep breath that made her starched bosom crackle. “There's Captain out in the passage. Best get going, my 'andsome. You don't want to be late.”

Placing the empty cup in the sink, Phoebe dropped an impulsive kiss on Mrs Lynas's damp cheek. “I'll write,” she promised in a husky whisper. Then straightening her spine she went to join her uncle.

Down at the quay, as her trunk and bag were stowed on the boat that was to carry her out to the packet, Phoebe turned to her uncle. Her throat ached and her mouth was as dry as yesterday's ashes.

“Goodbye, Uncle George. Thank you for everything.”

He seized her gloved hands, holding them against his chest. “God speed, my dear. You need have no concerns about the
Providence.
She's a good strong ship.”

Phoebe swallowed painfully. “I wish you and – and Carina very happy.”

“It's all for the best.” He pressed her fingers. “Marriage will give you the status and security all women aspire to. You'll be mistress of a large estate: a lady of property.
And
you'll be able to carry on with your work. It will be a good life, you'll see. Better than you could have achieved here. That's not to say Rupert Quintrell isn't a very lucky man, for he is. Shall I come out to the packet with you? See you safely aboard?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, uncle. We've said our farewells. To do so all over again –” She tried to smile, but had to bite hard on her lower lip to stop it quivering.

“Of course, of course. Point taken. Well, then, I suppose that's that.” His hearty smile faltered and he cleared his throat loudly. “Perhaps, if you have time, you'll write? I should like to hear how you go on.” He handed her down the stone steps and into the boat. “Goodbye, my dear.”

Unable to speak, she mouthed
goodbye
, raising one hand as the boatman dipped his oars and pulled away from the quay.

Phoebe followed the steward – “Call me Mossop, Miss” – down the curving stairway. One hand clutched the rail so tightly her knuckles ached. With the other she held her skirts clear of the metal treads. To trip and fall now would wreck all her efforts to appear calm and poised. She had survived the boat trip across the choppy harbour and climbed her first rope ladder without anyone detecting how her head swam or her stomach churned. Her heart was still hammering painfully against her ribs and her legs had all the strength and support of wilted celery.

Crossing from the gunwale to the open hatch in Mossop's wake, she had glimpsed a plump, cheerful-looking man standing at the far rail gazing around him in keen interest. His coat and breeches were well cut if slightly old-fashioned, and his bushy grey wig proclaimed him a member of the learned professions. Assuming he was the surgeon and aware that, at this moment, polite conversation was beyond her, she had swiftly lowered her eyes.

The space at the bottom of the stairs seemed to Phoebe little bigger than the walk-in larder at home.
Only that wasn't her home any more.
Toward the back of it were two doors, both closed.

“This one here,” Mossop explained, pointing to the nearest, “is the captain's sleeping cabin. But Mr Burley is using it, seeing Captain Deakin won't be aboard. Now through here –“

Feeling too wretched to care who Mr Burley might be or to wonder what had happened to the captain, Phoebe followed him into a short narrow passage with three more doors.

“This one on your left leads into the captain's saloon and day cabin. The one in the corner is the WC. There's another door into it from the saloon, so make sure you remember to lock them both. Then this one here is the armoury. And let's hope we don't see
that
opened this trip.” He opened the door to his right. “This is the passengers' mess.”

Phoebe found herself in a room roughly eighteen feet by twelve. There were no portholes. Instead the mess was lined with doors, three on each side, all with a four-inch gap at the top. Above her head an open skylight let in light, fresh air and the sounds of activity on deck as the ship made ready to sail. An oblong table with bench seats either side took up the middle of the floor. At the forward end of the mess just in front of the bulkhead a black stove radiated warmth. Standing on a large metal hearth it was flanked by a bucket of coal on one side and a basket of small logs on the other.

“I put you in here, Miss.” Mossop indicated the cabin next to the armoury. “You being the only lady aboard.”

He thought she should sleep next to muskets, pistols, cutlasses and boarding pikes?
Her bewilderment must have shown because he jerked his head sideways.

“The jakes, Miss,” he hissed. “You'll be closest.”

“The – ?” Heat flooded her face as she realized what he meant. “Th – thank you, Mossop. That was thoughtful.”

“'S all right, Miss. All part of the service.” He turned the handle and to Phoebe's surprise
pulled
the door open. That it should open outward into the mess seemed an odd inconvenient arrangement, for there was little space between the open door and the bench seat. But when he stepped back so she could enter she understood.

The cabin that for the next three months would be her only retreat, her only source of privacy, was no bigger than a cupboard. A single bunk filled most of it. The remaining narrow strip of floor between the edge of the bunk and the doorway was occupied at the forward end by a small nightstand crammed between bunk and partition wall. A short, railed shelf was attached to the ship's side and a small oil lamp hung from a hook in the deckhead.

The steward edged past to place the wooden case containing her herbal remedies on the bare mattress. “Your trunk's in there, all right?” he pointed to the space beneath the bunk. “You might have to pull'n forward to lift the lid. The boy will bring you hot water at seven-thirty each morning. Breakfast is at eight, dinner at noon, tea at five. Weather allowing, I usually make a hot drink about nine. Anything you need, you just ask. All right, Miss?”

Weather allowing.
Desperate to steer her imagination away from vivid images of wild seas lashed by gales, Phoebe said the first thing she could think of. “H – how many other passengers are there?”

“Travelling light we are this time. There's only three more besides yourself.” He cocked his head, listening. “I think that's the last two now arriving, Miss. So I'd better go. We'll be leaving soon as Mr Burley do come back with the mail. Why don't you go topside? Get a lovely view of the harbour you will.“

Leaving.
Swallowing the lump in her throat that made her feel as if she might choke, Phoebe stretched her quivering mouth into a smile. “Maybe later. I just – I – Thank you.” As he nodded and turned away she pulled the door closed and in semi-darkness sank onto the mattress. It was thin and hard.

She heard muffled grunts and curses as seamen brought down trunks and bags. Then came the clang of footsteps on the companionway stairs and male voices talking and laughing. Doors opened and closed. Then there were more footsteps on the brass stairs receding as they reached the deck.

Above her head the sounds of activity increased. There were thumps, creaks, shouts and the thud of running feet. The ship began to move, gathering way. Then it tilted as it picked up speed. Tipped gently backward she clutched the wooden edge of the bunk, rigid with fear, her heart threatening to burst from her chest. She could hear the slap and hiss of water. Turning her head and listening intently she realized it came from the other side of the planking: the only barrier between her and the sea beyond.

Panic began to bubble. She wanted to cover her ears to shut out the sound but dared not let go of the bunk edge. She could feel a scream forming in her throat. To stop it escaping she bit hard on the soft flesh inside her bottom lip. Feeling the packet's motion change to a slow rise and dip she guessed they had left the shelter of the inner harbour. They were out in the Carrick Roads. She couldn't bear to look ahead to the prospect of three months aboard this ship. Yet it was too painful to look back. She could not remember her father. And her mother's face had faded from her memory. Only Aunt Sarah's image remained clear. But though sometimes it was strong and vivid at other times it seemed to blur.

Phoebe hunched her shoulders. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks to drip off her chin. What was the point of loving people? Losing them hurt so much.
Too much.
Suddenly she heard her aunt's voice as clearly as if she were sitting alongside.

“For shame, Phoebe,” Sarah scolded, clicking her tongue in reproach. “I didn't raise you to waste time feeling sorry for yourself. You are alive and should be grateful for it. Make yourself useful. Then you'll have no time for this foolishness.”

Letting go of the mattress with one hand Phoebe wiped her wet face with shaking fingers then dragged in a deep breath. She couldn't get off the ship. Nor could she remain in this cramped hutch for the entire voyage. Meeting the other passengers would be an ordeal. But at least there were only three of them. She touched the wooden case drawing comfort from its familiar shape.

Scarred and scratched the once sharp edges were rounded now with age and use. Yet what it contained – knowledge handed down through generations – was priceless. And both William Quintrell and Uncle George had assured her that when she reached Jamaica there would opportunities for her to use what she had learned.
But the ocean was so vast, the ship so small. And she was so horribly afraid.

Drawing another deep breath she reached for the handkerchief tucked inside her cuff. She heard footsteps on the stairs and realized it was one of many sounds she would have to get used to. Wiping her eyes and nose she took off her hat and lay it on the nightstand. The best thing was to keep busy. Being occupied would leave her less time to brood, to miss all –

A knock on her door made her jump violently.

“Miss Dymond?”

“Yes?” Shock had tightened her throat so that the word emerged as a strangled hiss.

“Is everything all right?”

No.
Phoebe swallowed hard. Rising from the bunk to her feet she steadied herself with one hand, used the other to make sure her face was free from tearstains, and spoke through the wood. “Yes, thank you.”

“Miss Dymond, I have no wish to intrude on your privacy but nor do I have unlimited time.” His obvious impatience made Phoebe flinch. “I have just learned that I am to act as your guardian for the duration of the voyage. That being the case would our conversation not be more easily conducted – and more private – without a door between us?”

Phoebe grasped the handle. The door remained shut.
She was trapped.
Terror seared her nerves. But as she opened her mouth to scream she was pulled forward, the handle wrenched from her hand as the door flew open
outwards.

Letting out a cry she stumbled against a tall figure, gasping as she felt warm breath on her face. Gripped by her upper arms she was set down on the bench seat with the table at her back and immediately released.

Dizzy with relief and shock, deafened by her drumming heartbeat, Phoebe pressed both hands to her temples feeling utterly foolish. “How stupid of me. I'm sorry. I forgot about the door opening out –” As she glanced up the words dried on her tongue. This wasn't the man she had seen on deck. “Wh – who are you?”

His thick hair was the colour of clover honey and sprang back from his forehead in tousled waves. Beneath it his brows were drawn together in a frown. Without taking his eyes from hers he lowered himself onto the bench, deliberately putting distance between them.

“Crossley. Jowan Crossley.”

Phoebe's thoughts tumbled in confusion.
This
was the man her uncle had asked – ? No, he hadn't. Her uncle had asked the packet
agent
to inform the captain. Only the captain wasn't aboard. And either the agent had been too busy to mention it or had simply forgotten. “You're
the surgeon?” At his brief frowning nod she moistened her lips. Clearly he was as unwilling a party to the agreement as she was.