Dangerous Waters (14 page)

Rupert Quintrell would not expect his bride-to-be to arrive with work-roughened hands. What, in fact, was he expecting? Back in Falmouth, lying in her bed after another day of preparation and packing, she had tried to imagine what her new life on the estate would entail. Given the circumstances of her marriage she did not anticipate love. Nor did she seek it. Everyone she had loved had been taken from her. She could not bear to relive that pain.

Hopefully they would deal comfortably together in liking and respect. If they were fortunate affection would grow through shared experience as they came to know one another. She wondered how tall he was. What his interests were. How his voice sounded.

Such had been her imaginings as she tried to envisage talking to the man portrayed on the exquisite miniature. But lately as she drifted into sleep, lulled by the sounds of the ship and the sea, it was the surgeon's eyes and smile that filled her restless dreams: his voice that echoed in her ears.

Jowan Crossley dipped his pen in the standish. Sitting at the small writing desk in his cabin, the ledger open in front of him, he was supposed to be writing notes detailing the condition and treatment of patients he had seen that morning. But though his eyes were on the page his mind was in another part of the ship.

While stitching a gash, re-dressing a persistent ulcer, or bleeding a man with fever while Grigg administered doses of calomel or medicinal rhubarb, he had been able to shut out everything but the job in hand. But now his attention was no longer focused on practical matters he found concentration impossible.

Though he hoped never
ever
to experience the misery of seasickness again, being fully recovered meant – paradoxically – that life had become not easier but far more difficult. Then he had been absorbed by wretched discomfort. Now he had too much time to think.

His recovery had not even come about through his own efforts. Despite everything he had learned during years of study, training and practice he had been helpless. Relief and restoration had been granted by a simple blend of herbs. A mixture so swift acting he was almost inclined to agree with Downey's claim of miracle potions.

To have been cured by someone outside his profession was embarrassing enough. That he should owe his deliverance to a young woman made it worse. That his saviour should be Phoebe Dymond –

Throwing down the pen he raked his hair with both hands.
He
was supposed to be responsible for
her
. If when he had first been told, he had known what he knew now – What would he have done? Refused the obligation? The terms of his employment meant that was not within his power. And as her guardian he could not entirely avoid her even if such a thing were possible on a vessel this size. Besides, God help him, he wanted to see
more
of her not less.

Her air of reserve was misleading. She wore it like a cloak, a protective shell. But beneath it she was fire and passion. There was no doubting her kindness and generosity, or her temper. Yet though swiftly roused her anger soon passed. She bore no grudge and possessed a dry wit that delighted as much as it had surprised him.

Based on the little he had been told he had made assumptions about her that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. At ease in society and always a welcome guest he knew well how to conduct himself. So why in her company did he so often find himself wrong-footed: feeling clumsy, foolish or ashamed? This was a new experience, unpleasant and bitterly resented.

Shoving back his chair he thrust his arms into his coat and left the cabin to make his weekly inspection of the galley. The cook had better have heeded his warning about cleaning the pease-soup cauldron.

“According to the master,” Downey told Phoebe as they stood at the larboard stern quarter enjoying the afternoon sunshine, “we are roughly 500 miles south west of Lisbon. The coast of Morocco is about 350 miles in that direction.” He gestured with his left arm.

Phoebe shivered, masking it with a quick smile. “That sounds as though we are a very long way from land.”
From rescue, from safety, from people and houses and –

“Not at all,” he beamed. “We will reach Madeira tomorrow. And though we stay only long enough to pick up mail it will be – “

“Oh my goodness.” Phoebe's hand flew to her mouth as a seaman hurtled out of the fo'c'sle and flung himself at another near the foremast. Accusations erupted into violence. As fists flew others joined the fray. Phoebe winced as the shrill note of the bosun's call pierced the grunts and roars. He plunged into the scrum, laying about him with the short length of rope that was as much a badge of office as his whistle.

“I think it better we go below,” Downey announced quickly. And cupping Phoebe's elbow he steered her towards the companionway.

They were all sitting down to tea when Jowan came in from the fo'c'sle.

“Was anyone badly hurt?” Phoebe asked.

He shook his head. “Just cuts and bruises. One man will have a black eye by the morning and another's nose is broken.”

“What was it all about?” Downey enquired.

“Theft,” Jowan was grim. “It's a tradition in the fo'c'sle that sea chests are never locked. Most of the men are carrying ventures to trade in Jamaica. Apparently some shoe buckles have gone missing. The master is questioning the crew now.”

Matcham clicked his tongue. “And to think I missed all the excitement.”

“W-what will happen t-to the thief?” Clewes put Phoebe's thought into words. “Assuming they f-find out who d-did it, of course.”

“Will he be flogged?” Matcham's eyes gleamed.

“No,” Jowan said. “Though the thief might prefer a flogging to the alternative.”

“Why not?”

“Why?” The two merchants demanded simultaneously.

Phoebe watched the surgeon as he answered.

“Why won't he be flogged? Because flogging is a Naval punishment and a tradition the packet service does not follow. Why might he prefer it? Because instead he'll be put ashore at the first landfall.”

“Madeira,” Downey reminded Phoebe.

“Well, what's so bad about that?” Matcham snorted. “Unless he's thrown in jail, of course. Which no doubt he's used to.”

“He'll lose his protection from the press gang,” Jowan said. “And Madeira is a regular port of call for naval vessels, many desperate to replace men lost to battle wounds or fever.”

The following morning Phoebe stood in her usual place in the stern. With Downey beside her she gazed at the islands that were growing larger. She had watched the master issue orders, heard the bosun's whistle, seen the huge boom swing across the ship from one side to the other, and felt the deck change its angle beneath her feet as the packet altered course to make her approach.

“That's Porto Santo.” Downey pointed. “There's not a single tree on the island. Over there are the Ilhas Desertas, literally the deserted islands. And ahead,” he gestured towards the island, “is Madeira.”

Three hazy peaks clothed in swathes of dense forest rose out of the blue sea. Patches of paler green showed where the lower slopes had been cleared of trees.

“Some of the land is used to grow sugar cane,” Downey said. “But most is devoted to vines. No doubt you are familiar with Madeira wine? I confess I find it a touch heavy and sweet for my palate. But apparently it is very popular in America as well as in England.”

By mid-afternoon
Providence
lay at anchor off Funchal and the deck seethed with activity. A small leather portmanteau containing mail was lowered into the larger of the packet's two boats now bobbing gently on the turquoise water.

Closely guarded by two of his erstwhile shipmates the thief, his hands manacled in front of him, stood near the side ready to follow. Phoebe recognised him as the man she had glimpsed involved in snarling argument the day she boarded.

The bosun jerked his head and the two seamen pushed their prisoner to the opening where a section of the gunwale had been removed and a ladder hung over the side. Instead of removing the manacles to allow the thief to climb down by himself the crewmen passed a length of rope through his pinioned arms. Yelling and cursing, he was lowered with swift efficiency into the boat.

Wearing his best uniform the master emerged from the companionway followed by the surgeon.

“Limes, was it?” Burley said over his shoulder as he strode to the opening.

“If possible,” Jowan said. “But lemons will suffice.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Burley disappeared down the ladder.

Phoebe felt her colour rise as Jowan turned and his gaze caught hers. After an instant's hesitation he nodded briefly and went back down the stairs.

Phoebe remained on deck enjoying the mild air as the sun sank slowly down the western sky. It cast soft golden light over whitewashed houses dotted across the hillside amid vine terraces and small patches of cultivated land.

It was almost five and halfway through the first dogwatch when she heard sounds on deck that signalled the master's return. Closing her book she left the saloon and returned to the mess.

Matcham looked up. “Come and join us, Miss Dymond,” he demanded. After a brief turn about the deck the two merchants had returned to the mess and passed the remainder of the afternoon playing cards.

Thank you, but no,” Phoebe demurred.

“We are starved of good company,” he pressed.

“I think not,” she replied politely without breaking her stride. “For you have each other.”

“We want you, Miss Dymond,” he insisted with a glittering smile.

“I do not play cards, Mr Matcham.”

“Then we will devise some other amusement –”

The door opened and Burley looked in. “Surgeon here, is he?”

“I b'lieve he's in the sick bay, sir.” The steward's entrance from his pantry allowed Phoebe to escape into her cabin. She sat on her bunk, her heart racing, furious that she had fallen into Matcham's trap. She wished she need not speak to him at all. But that would make her appear ill mannered.

She remained in her cabin until Downey tapped on her door and called her to tea. She enquired about progress on his book. Then listening to the surgeon's reply when asked the purpose of the lemons – apparently useful in preventing a debilitating disease common among seamen on long voyages – she was able to eat without taking any further part in the conversation.

The sounds of urgent activity filtered down from the deck. The boat had been hoisted inboard and secured on its cradle. Men swarmed up the ratlines and out along the yards to ready the sails while others heaved on the capstan bars to raise the anchor.

Having rid
Providence
of a thief and
picked up the mail Burley did not intend to linger.

A few days later the passengers were at breakfast when Andy Gilbert clattered down the companionway and poked his head around the mess door.

“Morning all. Master says not to worry when you hear the guns. Tis only a practise, all right?” With that he disappeared again.

Phoebe decided to take advantage of both master and mate being on deck. The empty saloon would allow her privacy to wash her hair.

After unpinning and thoroughly brushing the dark rippling curtain that fell almost to her waist, she put a towel around her shoulders and sat down on the banquette. Uncorking a bottle of lotion made from rosewater, pearl ash and spirits of wine she had just tipped it against a piece of flannel when the first gun boomed. Despite the mate's warning the noise made her gasp and her heart gave a painful thud. Chiding herself for an excess of sensibility she moved across and closed the side window.

Holding the bottle between her knees she gently worked the flannel over her scalp from forehead to neckline. Even down here with doors and windows closed the noise was deafening. Bellowed orders, thumping feet, the rumble of the heavy trucks as the guns were run out, the
crump
and roar of ragged cannon blasts were followed by more shouted orders. The whole process was repeated several times.

Taking a section of hair at a time she ran the re-wetted cloth from root to tip until it had all had been thoroughly washed. After towelling it thoroughly she combed out the tangles. Then lifting the damp mass back over her shoulders she left it loose to dry.

The smell of burnt gunpowder and hot metal pervaded the saloon and stung the back of her nose. Wrapping the bottle of lotion in the folded towel with her brush and comb Phoebe lay them beside her on the red plush seat and opened her journal.

A tremendous explosion made her start violently. Above the fading echoes she could hear heavy thuds, yells, the throat-tearing scream of a man in mortal agony and someone shouting for the surgeon.

Should she stay here?
Whatever had happened sounded bad.
Should she offer help?
This was outside her experience.
How many were hurt?
She would offer. She must. She had no choice.
But she could not be seen like this.

Swiftly twisting her hair into a coil she anchored it with pins at the nape of her neck. Then snatching up her belongings she hurried along the passage and through the mess to her cabin. Tossing the bundle onto her bunk she grabbed her case. She had just slammed her cabin door when Jowan burst in from the fo'c'sle.

“What happened?” she began.

“One of the carronades exploded and snapped the restraining ropes. It's like a butcher's shambles up there.”

Chapter Eleven

As Jowan strode toward the steward's pantry Mossop hurried out into the mess wiping his hands on a grubby cloth.

“Bad is it?”

Jowan nodded grimly. “One man dead, half-a dozen injured. Mr Downey was knocked out but I doubt it's more than just simple concussion. Those with burns and splinter wounds are being carried down to the sickbay through the fo'c'sle. Grigg should be able to deal with them. He's taken young Timmy with him to fetch and carry. But Jenkins –” he shook his head. “His foot was crushed.”

“Any chance – ?“

“I wish there were. But it's beyond saving. Andy Gilbert is pouring rum into him to deaden the pain. I'll need the table.”

Heaving a sigh the steward clicked his tongue. “Poor bug – soul. Got a wife and a couple of kiddies he have. Youngest is no more'n a babby.” He shook his head. “Someone bringing sand buckets are they?”

“What for?”

“The floor,” Phoebe supplied seeing Jowan's momentary confusion. “So you won't slip on spilled blood.”

Both men turned startled faces towards her.
H
ow did she know?
She answered their unspoken question: “Uncle George's ship has been chased by privateers on several occasions.” She lifted one shoulder. “Though the packet escaped capture it was inevitable there would be damage and injuries. He always talked over such events with my aunt.“

“Why, for heaven's sake?” The surgeon was visibly shocked.

“Because my aunt was often asked to treat injured men who could not afford a doctor's fees.” Phoebe replied, carefully expressionless. His hard frowning gaze bored into hers but she met it steadily. “As Grigg is already busy you'll need someone to assist you.”

Glancing from one to the other Mossop announced, “I'll go and fetch the buckets,” and hurried out.

Never had Phoebe been so glad of her ability to mask her emotions. The façade of calm confidence was as familiar as her favourite winter cloak and as easy to slip into. Jowan Crossley couldn't see her heart thumping or the tension in her muscles as she tried to prepare herself. This was after all just one more new experience in a whole procession that had begun the moment she set foot on this ship and met the man charged with her safety and wellbeing.

A wild giggle suddenly bubbled up. She cleared her throat to disguise it. He would not understand. How could he when there was so much about her reactions
she
didn't understand?

Since meeting Jowan Crossley she had never felt more protected or less secure. She had always considered herself level headed,
sensible.
But the turmoil inside her as conscience warred with overwhelming attraction mocked any claims to sense or decency.

Sounds from the deck broke into her troubled thoughts and she forced herself to concentrate on the task ahead. She wasn't exactly afraid. But she couldn't deny being apprehensive about her ability to detach herself from the horror. Yet she must if she was to provide the surgeon – and the injured man – with the help they both needed. She sensed the battle raging inside him.

His frown deepened. “I appreciate your offer, but Grigg can – “

“Grigg cannot be in two places at once,” she reminded.

He dragged a breath. “It will be a bloody business.”

“So are scythe wounds and so is childbirth.”

He looked startled. “What would you know – “

“I told you I was Aunt Sarah's apprentice.”

“You mean
you
have delivered – ?” He raked his hair. “You continually amaze me, Miss Dymond.”

“Then you must have lived a very sheltered life.” The curt words were out before she could stop them. For an instant she wished she had held her tongue. But his astonishment each time he learned she was capable of doing something useful fanned flames of resentment whose source she didn't dare examine. Should she apologise? It was too late. In any case more important things demanded their attention.

She turned as the steward came in with two sand buckets. “Mossop, will you bring boiled water and two – no – three basins?” She turned back to Jowan projecting calm efficiency. “The point is I am no stranger to bloodshed.”
But an exploding gun? What damage would that inflict on flesh and bone?

“Very well. If you're sure – “

“Perfectly,” she lied, not waiting for him to finish.

While Jowan went to fetch the instruments he would need she helped Mossop push the benches out of the way. Then she sprinkled sand over the cabin floor. Grunting with effort the two merchants staggered in carrying Downey's slumped form between them.

“Would you lay him on his bunk?” Phoebe hurried to open the door for them.

“What's going on?” Matcham demanded. “Why have the benches been moved? Why is there sand – ?”

“Dr Crossley has to perform an amputation.”

“W-what? In h-here?” Clewes glanced over his shoulder at the mess table as his eyes widened in horror.

“I'm afraid there's nowhere else,” Phoebe said.

Having deposited Downey on his bunk, Matcham straightened his coat. The smile that oozed across his mouth was slick with triumph and satisfaction. “Miss Dymond, you must allow me to escort you to the saloon.”

“B-but w-what about the m-master – ?” Clewes began.

“What about him? Given the damage on deck he'll be up there for hours,” Matcham cut in impatiently. “He certainly wouldn't want us under his feet. Nor, I imagine, would he expect us to stay in here and watch.”

“N-no, indeed! I c-can't s-stand the s-sight of – Never c-could. Hopeless w-with –” As he backed away shaking his head Clewes darted Phoebe a look that reflected shame at his anxiety to escape. “I'd b-be useless.”

“Miss Dymond?” Matcham repeated, crooking his elbow and offering his arm. “This is no place for a young lady – “

“Thank you, but I am staying to assist.”

“Y-you're
what
?” Clewes said, horrified.

Shock blanked Matcham's features. “You cannot possibly –” Disbelief, resentment and anger chased each other like storm clouds across his face. “Has the surgeon taken leave of his senses that he would expose you to – ?“

“Gentlemen, I appreciate your concern but truly it is unnecessary.”

“My dear Miss Dymond,” Matcham began, “no doubt your intentions are of the best, but you cannot know –”

“Indeed I can,” she interrupted, polite but firm. “And I do. Now if you will excuse me I must see to Mr Downey.“

“I fear I shall have to inform the master –” Matcham warned, the threat cut off as Clewes pushed him out, slamming the door in his haste to be gone.

Clenching her fists Phoebe closed her eyes. Of all the odious, interfering, patronising – Taking a deep breath she deliberately flexed her fingers, squared her shoulders and thrust the merchant from her mind.

“The explosion,” Downey mumbled, wincing as Phoebe gently examined the swelling above his temple. “It made me jump and I tripped over. Damn silly thing to do. I feel such a fool.”

“Indeed you should not. For though I was below deck in the saloon the noise gave me a dreadful fright,” Phoebe confided. “When you fell did you hurt yourself anywhere else?”

“No. Well, I jarred my shoulder. I'm a bit shaky. Feel a little queasy too.”

“That's probably shock. It can have very unpleasant effects. Will you turn onto your side, Mr Downey?” She covered him with the blanket, opened the cupboard in his nightstand and took out the pewter chamber pot. “I'll leave this within reach. And I'll bring a draught for your headache as soon as – “

“Don't you worry about me,” Downey waved her away. “I'm just an old man making too much fuss. Go and do what you can for those poor sailors. But once you've finished, perhaps – “

“I'll be back, I promise.”

Returning to the mess Phoebe saw that another bucket half-full of sand had been set beneath the table. Mossop had put the water and basins she'd requested on one of the benches standing against the merchants' cabin doors.

“Here, miss.” He took a torn length of grubby lightweight sailcloth from under his arm. “It'll save your dress from – well, you know.”

She looked up, her throat suddenly and painfully dry, as Jowan came in. He had removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. A wooden tray was balanced on his bare forearm. It held a loosely wrapped gauze bundle on top of which was a folded piece of canvas-like fabric. Once off-white it was now dirty grey and smeared with stains that had dried dark brown and stiff. As he closed the door the tray tipped slightly and she heard the clink of metal against metal. She saw him register the makeshift apron she was tying around her waist. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he leaned forward and spoke with soft urgency.

“Are you absolutely sure – ?” He stopped, glancing up as approaching voices and footsteps in the passage grew louder.

Phoebe turned as the door was flung open and two seamen staggered in carrying the injured man between them. Her gaze was drawn to the unrecognisable mess of mangled flesh and splintered bone at the end of his leg. A bitter taste flooded her mouth.

Jenkins's whole body trembled. His head lolled sideways on one shoulder as if too heavy for his neck. His face was grey-white, glistening, and contorted with pain and fear as his eyes rolled beneath fluttering lids. The acrid stench of his sweat reached her in waves, battling with the pungent burnt-sugar smell of rum.

Phoebe looked again at the dreadful injury and swallowed hard.

“Miss Dymond?“ The surgeon's murmur was harsh and urgent.

“Poor
poor
man,” she whispered. Then resolve tilted her chin. Turning her head to meet his gaze she gestured toward the bundle on the tray. “Dressings?”

She saw him release a breath as he nodded. “I had to leave half with Grigg so I hope there may be enough. Be careful when you lift the bundle. Of your fingers, I mean. The instruments are underneath and the knives are exceptionally sharp.“

As she took the tray he whisked the dirty cloth off the top and shook it out to reveal a blood-stiffened apron. She cleared her throat. “I have linen and gauze here should you need them.”

Looping the apron over his head he quickly fastened the strings then beckoned the two seamen forward. Helping them place the injured man on the table he looked at each in turn. “I'll need you to hold him down.”

They nodded: their faces as white as that of their shipmate who moaned and babbled incoherently, turning his head one way then the other on the scarred wooden tabletop.

Jowan flipped back the cloth to uncover three steel knives with handles that appeared to Phoebe to be covered by some kind of braided material – presumably to prevent blood-wet hands from slipping. One had a short straight blade. The other two had longer blades with a curved edge. There were two saws: one large and broad, the other thin and D-shaped, and suture needles. Beside him Phoebe laid out dressings and bandages. Reaching into her case she took out a bottle and set it on the bench.

He paused in his preparations. “What's that?”

“An antiseptic lotion made from marigold and golden seal.”

“I've never heard of it.”

She looked up. “Why would you?” Turning her back on the seamen she dropped her voice to avoid being overheard. “But I can vouch for its usefulness. As well as being antiseptic it also has an astringent action that shrinks the cut edges of flesh and reduces bleeding.”

His brows rose. “You have personal experience of this?”

She nodded quickly. “I've used it on scythe wounds. There are always some during haymaking and harvest – “

He shook his head. “This is different.”

“Only in degree.” She moistened her lips. “Do you have an alternative? Something of your own you prefer to use?”

The fact that he didn't annoyed him. “No.”

“Then I don't understand your reluctance. You have seen my other remedies work – “

“You cannot compare this to seasickness.”

“The principle is the same. And I promise you it is effective. None of the mothers I delivered died from childbed fever. Can you claim as much?”

He stiffened. “I don't deliver babies.”

“But you must know doctors who do. And you must know how many women die. Women who were healthy before –” She fastened her teeth on her lower lip to stop herself saying any more.

But he silently completed the sentence:
before they were attended by doctors who arrived on the delivery ward with bloody hands having come directly from performing dissections in the mortuary.
He caught himself. She could not possibly know anything about that. Nor could he be certain that any connection existed between this practise and the high death rate among women delivered in hospital. He saw her draw a ragged breath before completing the sentence.

“Before they went into labour.”

But he could not deny it. He had heard the talk, read the articles, shaken his head over the mortality figures. And she must have seen that in his face.

“Why are you refusing something that will – ?”

“Because I can't take on trust something of which I have no knowledge and no experience.”

“You were glad enough to do so when you were suffering,” she shot back in a fierce whisper.

“Yes, I was,” he hissed. “But I was making that decision for
me.
And had anything gone wrong it would have been
me
who faced the consequences, not someone else.” He watched angry colour bloom in her cheeks at the implication her remedies might harm. But it faded as she recognised and conceded his point. She bent her head and smoothed her palms down the sailcloth.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken so. But please, I beg you to reconsider. Jenkins must lose his foot. Will you risk his life as well?”