Dangerous Waters (19 page)

She guessed that as the youngest and smallest of the crew Timmy would be acting as powder monkey: bringing up gunpowder cartridges from the magazine. Soon the slow matches would be lit and laid for safety in a sand bucket beside each gun.

Phoebe tied the sailcloth apron around her waist. The knowledge that it was only a matter of time, that a fight was now inevitable, made the tension almost unbearable.

She knew from her uncle that Packet Service rules decreed that if a packet ship was attacked she must run. Only when escape was impossible was it permitted to turn and fight. To ensure this rule was obeyed packets were armed only for defence. Smaller than most enemy vessels, and outgunned, packets relied on the courage of the crew and the skill and ingenuity of their masters to keep out of trouble.

But if trouble was inevitable the crew was supposed to keep the enemy at bay for as long as it took either to escape or to sink the mails. Then the packet was supposed to strike her colours and surrender. These rules were bitterly resented by packet men.

A booming explosion made Phoebe start violently. Her hand flew to her throat.

“All right?” Jowan murmured.

She nodded, drawing a steadying breath. “Yes, it's just – I wasn't expecting –” She could feel her heart galloping. Yet in a strange way that first shot was a relief. At last the waiting was over.

“Was that a warning?” Downey enquired, busily rolling another bandage with hands that had developed a slight tremor.

“The Frenchie testing for distance more like,” Grigg announced.

There was another rolling boom, swiftly followed by a much louder explosion as
Providence's
stern-chaser roared defiance.

For a while Phoebe sat with every muscle tense, hardly daring to breathe as shots were exchanged. Then came the crunch of splintering wood.
Providence
had been hit.

The screams of the wounded were lost in a shuddering crash as something fell to the deck. Within moments injured men began arriving in the mess. Phoebe lost all track of time as she and Jowan and Grigg worked amid deafening noise. Removing a six-inch splinter from one man's calf she washed the wound with a lotion of marigold, yarrow and comfrey and bandaged on a compress. As he tugged his forelock, muttered his thanks, then limped out to return topside, another man slumped onto the bench holding a rag to his head, his face a crimson mask.

While she washed the blood off then stitched the scalp flap back in place, Jowan set a broken leg. Falling from the yard when the topmast was shot away, the man had got tangled in the rigging. It had saved his life but snapped his femur.

Trying to shut out everything else but the injury in front of her, Phoebe swabbed cuts, applied soothing ointment to shrapnel grazes and burns, bound healing compresses to wounds. The guns thundered. The mess grew stuffy and rank with the stench of blood and sweat. Her dress clung uncomfortably and she could feel beads of perspiration trickling between her breasts and down her temples. Wiping a forearm across her forehead and upper lip it came away wet.

“Phoebe!”

Jowan's voice.
She whirled round, startled by his use of her name, and saw a brawny figure being laid on the table. She recognised him. It was one of the helmsmen. His face was a rictus of agony as he cradled his right arm against his chest. But as Grigg gently eased away the blood-soaked shirt someone had wrapped around his hand Phoebe caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. What remained of the helmsman's hand wasn't recognisable. It was just mangled flesh and jagged white bone. Her throat tightened and her stomach heaved. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard again and again.

Forcing her head up she met Jowan's gaze, nodded, then turned aside. “Grigg?” Her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat and tapped him on the shoulder. “As soon as you've finished, can you bandage Thomas's arm? I've already applied burn salve.”

“I'm right there, miss.” As they passed each other both nearly slipped. Despite the earlier covering of sand the floor was slick with blood and water. Phoebe scooped another handful from one of the buckets. It felt cold and gritty, and stuck to her damp fingers. Quickly scattering it beside the table she moved the bucket so it stood close to the surgeon.

As Mossop lifted the man's shoulders so Jowan could pour laudanum into his mouth, she rinsed her hands, Drawing deep breaths and willing herself to be calm and steady she reached for the bowl of antiseptic solution.

The horrendous noise made conversation impossible. But having assisted with the amputation of Jenkins's foot Phoebe knew what to do and when to do it.

While she helped Jowan, Downey continued giving drinks, emptying bowls, collecting blood-soaked dressings in a bucket and fetching more bandages from the saloon where Clewes was rolling them after tearing another sheet into strips.

The operation completed, Grigg and Mossop carried the unconscious helmsman through to the sickbay. As she and Jowan turned to their next patients Phoebe felt someone tap her on the back. She turned, flexing painfully stiff shoulders. Downey pointed at the deckhead. At first she didn't understand. Then she realised that though she could still hear gunfire,
Providence's
cannons had fallen silent.

Immediately she looked across at Jowan. His face was drawn and pale except for brownish purple shadows beneath his eyes and a streak of dried blood across one cheek. As his gaze met hers there was a roar from the men on deck and a thump as someone jumped down the last few stairs. Then a crewman burst into the mess, his smoke-blackened sweat-streaked face split by a huge grin.

“The navy's come! 'Tis the
Vanguard
. Look like she been in a fight herself but she's seeing the Frenchie off.” Instantly the atmosphere lightened. Some of the injured men gave a ragged cheer. Others nodded, their shoulders slumping in relief.

As she exchanged a smile with Jowan Phoebe felt her eyes prickle. Instantly she bent her head, blinking away tears of relief as she squeezed excess solution from a gauze pad and bound the hot compress onto the seaman's shoulder. Swallowing the stiffness in her throat she helped the seaman to his feet. She had never been so tired in her life. Every muscle ached and her head was throbbing from the strain of working under such intense pressure amid indescribable noise.

She staggered slightly, finding it suddenly harder to keep her balance. Was it exhaustion? Or had the packet's motion changed?

“
Vanguard
has signalled us to heave-to,” Grigg announced as he came in from the sick bay. “They're sending a boarding party across.”

As Phoebe opened her mouth to ask why, the packet wallowed, rolling heavily. She saw Jowan grab at the table to steady himself. But he missed. Losing his footing on the wet floor he fell. Phoebe gasped, wincing at the sickening crack as his head hit the edge of one of the benches.

Mossop burst in. “That boarding party want to take some of our crew to replace their dead and injured.”

Phoebe flew to Jowan and knelt beside him, heedless of the filth or her dress.” They can't do that.” Her voice reflected her fear for Jowan and shock at Mossop's announcement.

The steward nodded grimly. “They can. 'Tis war time. They can do what they bleddy like. They want the surgeon as well.”

“Bugger that,” Grigg snapped. “Beg pardon, miss.” Crouching, he whipped off Jowan's blood-streaked apron. “But they aren't having him. He's ours.” Clutching the surgeon under the arms, Grigg started hauling him towards a bench. “Someone give us a hand.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And you lot budge up.”

While Phoebe watched, frozen with fear and exhaustion, Grigg propped Jowan in a corner and, tucking the ties out of sight, draped the bloody canvas across shirt and breeches that might otherwise betray him. Grabbing a sopping crimson rag from the swab bucket he wound it around Jowan's head. The injured crew huddled around until he was virtually invisible.

“C'mon now, miss,” Mossop gently lifted Phoebe to her feet. “Just a bit longer. Once they've gone I'll make a nice cup of tea.”

Phoebe stared at him, felt her insides shake like jelly, and pressed her fingers to her mouth. If she started laughing she wouldn't be able to stop.

The bosun's call shrilled. Booted feet strode across the deck and clanged noisily on the companionway.

Phoebe drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, wiping wet hands down her bloodstained sailcloth apron. As she turned a tall figure in white breeches and a navy coat with lots of gold braid strode in.

“Where's the surgeon?”

Phoebe's chin rose. She stepped forward. “My name is Phoebe Dymond.” She paused. “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?”

He stopped abruptly. And as colour rushed into his face Phoebe realised he was younger than she had first thought.

He bowed briefly. “Lieutenant Waddington, at your service, Miss Dymond. Forgive the intrusion, but I need the surgeon.”

“Can I be of assistance, Lieutenant?”

“
You?
” His expression echoed his astonishment.

“Looked after us 'andsome, she 'ave, sir,” one of the injured men announced.

“Aye, good as any doctor she is,” another agreed.

“Miss Dymond is a trained herbalist and healer, Lieutenant,” Downey clutched the table to steady himself as the ship wallowed and rolled. “I don't know what we would have done without her.”

As the lieutenant glanced swiftly around the mess, Phoebe tried to see it through his eyes: the injured men slumped on one of the benches and slumped on the wet floor propped against the merchants' cabin doors; the swab bucket, the blood, the smell.

“
You
have been treating the injured men?” he demanded, clearly finding it hard to believe.

“Indeed she has, Lieutenant,” Mossop confirmed. “Watched her myself. As neat a bit of stitching as I've ever seen. We'd 'ave been in some bad way without her and that's a fact.”

“You're bound for Jamaica, Miss Dymond?”

Phoebe nodded. “I am.”

“May I ask for what purpose?”

“With respect, Lieutenant, I fail to see why the circumstances of my journey should be of any interest to you.” His colour rose again. “However,” she added before he could respond, “it is no secret. I am travelling to Jamaica to join –” she took a breath, clasping her hands in front of her and forced the words out. “To join my f-fiance. He owns a sugar plantation there.”

“I see.” He made a stiff bow. “My question was prompted not by idle curiosity, Miss Dymond, but by concern for your safety. Recent news from the island is not good. Refugees are flooding in from St Domingue and the militia have been deployed in the north-west of the island to deal with an uprising among the Maroons.”

“I appreciate your consideration in warning me, Lieutenant. Now if there is nothing else, I must beg you to excuse me. Some of the injured men have not yet been treated.” A low-pitched groan tensed Phoebe's stomach.
Jowan.
As the lieutenant glanced round the sound of swift footsteps in the passage preceded Clewes who rushed in.

“Miss D-Dymond, I'm s-so s-sorry t-to interrupt, b-but c-could you spare G-Grigg or M-Mossop? M-my c-colleague – Oh.“ Seeing the newcomer he stopped short.

“Obviously you are busy, Miss Dymond. I'll delay you no longer.” With a brief bow the lieutenant strode out, nodding to Clewes as he passed.

Phoebe swayed, suddenly light headed.

“Everything's all right, miss” Mossop soothed. “You jest sit down here. Grigg, will you see to – ?”

“I'm gone. Now, Mr Clewes, do I need a bucket?”

“I'm fine,” Phoebe said, wondering why her voice sounded so far away. “Oh, that's marvellous,” she murmured as a cool wet cloth was placed on the back of her neck. She raised her head. “Dr Crossley – “

“Thomas and Mr Downey are carrying him to his cabin.”

She straightened up. “I ought to –”

Mossop gently pressed her down. “You stay right there. He won't come to no harm while you have a cup of tea.”

Chapter Fifteen

Dimly aware of movement, of pressure under his arms and knees, not knowing where he was or what was happening, Jowan began to struggle. He felt sick and dizzy and a sword-thrust of pain lanced through his temple.

“Easy now, Doctor.” Grigg's voice came from above and behind him. “We're just taking you to your cabin.”

“Put me down.” Jowan felt his lips move. But hearing the words emerge in a husky slur shook him. He cleared his throat, flinching as pain shot through his skull again. “I can walk, dammit.”

“Are you sure that's wise, doctor?” Downey fretted.

“Yes,” Jowan hissed. Everyone else had managed to keep their footing. He was the only one to have made a fool of himself.

“Well, if you say so.“ Downey released his legs, grunting as he straightened up.

Unable to suppress a groan as nausea churned his stomach Jowan reached blindly for his cabin door murmuring, “Phoebe –”

“Just fetching lotion and bandages she is,” Grigg said, shifting his grip so Jowan was leaning on him. “Come on, better get you laid down before you fall down.”

Grigg was becoming far too familiar. But right now Jowan hadn't the strength to reprove him.

Lying flat on his bunk, eyes closed, Jowan felt marginally better. He heard the scrape of a match and smelled oil as the lantern was lit. Then he heard the soft swish and rustle of skirts.

“Ah, Miss Dymond.” Jowan could hear the smile in Downey's voice. “You must allow me to congratulate you on the way you dealt with Lt Waddington.”

“Oh, I didn't mean to – it was just that he –”

“Indeed, you were superb.” Downey was not to be stopped. “I would go so far as to say that the lieutenant's understanding of the world and women's contribution to it has just been considerably broadened.”

“There, Miss.” The lantern glass clattered onto its base. “Should be able to see what you're doing now. Need anything else, do you?” Mossop enquired.

“Not for the moment, thank you.”

“Well, if you do, just give us a shout. All right?”

Hearing the door open Jowan eased himself up. Gingerly touching his tender scalp he winced. And saw fresh blood on his fingers.

“I'll leave you to Miss Dymond's care then, Doctor,” Downey announced, moving towards the door that Mossop still held. “As I can be of little help I'll only be in the way.”

“Indeed, Mr Downey,” Phoebe said quickly, “your assistance this past hour was invaluable and much appreciated.”

“You are too kind, my dear. I'll close the door, shall I? So it doesn't slam.”

Jowan swallowed. Never had his cabin felt more claustrophobic. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bunk he gazed blindly at the door, shoulders tensed, his hands gripping his thighs while Phoebe bathed the cut on his head. The herbal lotion was sharp, almost acrid, in his nostrils. Yet beneath it he detected the floral soap and dried lavender that were unique to her. Lack of space and the task she was performing required her to stand close. There were inches between them yet he could feel the fragrant warmth of her body. A groan escaped and he closed his eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” she murmured. “I'm being as careful as I can. At least the cut has stopped bleeding.”

“It's not that.” His tone was rough. He could not tell her the truth. “Your touch is exquisitely gentle.” Hearing the soft catch of her breath and aware of the sudden tremor in her hand as she wiped the wound with a clean wad of gauze, he hurried on, “No, it's this awful queasiness.” Though it wasn't the whole truth, nor was it a lie.

As she turned, dropping the gauze in the bowl and picking up a small jar of salve, he inhaled the air stirred by her movement. He bit hard on his lower lip as he fought an overpowering urge to rest his forehead against the softness of her bosom.

“It could be the result of the blow as you fell,” she suggested. Jowan's eyelids fluttered down as he abandoned himself to the sensation of her fingers applying the salve. “Or it might be due to the ship's motion. Is your sight clear? No blurred or double vision?”

Carefully tilting his head he looked into her face. “No.” He bent his head again, swallowing the hoarseness in his voice as he pressed one hand to his stomach. “Just nausea and a very sore head.”

“That's not to be wondered at. You took a hard fall.”

“I must have a thick skull.”

“Well, on this occasion you should be thankful for it.”

This time his wince held wry humour. “What happened?”

“The ship rolled and because the floor was wet with water…and everything…you slipped and hit your head as you fell.”

“No, I meant what happened about our crew? The last thing I remember was Mossop saying the boarding party had come for men to replace
Vanguard's
dead and injured.”

Phoebe wiped her hands on a linen rag. “I don't know. I'm sure someone will tell us as soon as there is further news. I think Lieutenant Waddington must still be with Mr Burley. I know we are still lying hove-to, which is why
Providence
is rolling so badly.” She hesitated. “Apparently their own surgeon was killed and they wanted you to replace him. But – “

Startled, Jowan looked up. “Then how is it that I'm still here?”

“For a start you were unconscious. And – and the crew didn't want to lose you. They hid you among the injured and – You must understand that no one actually lied.”

“But?” Jowan prompted as she faltered.

“But they – we – allowed the lieutenant to assume we didn't have a surgeon on board.”

Jowan studied her. Even in the lantern light he could see a flush has suffused her face and throat. Avoiding his gaze she replaced the top on the salve jar. Her fingers, usually so quick and deft, were awkward. “So who did he imagine had been treating the wounded?” He heard Phoebe swallow.

“Without actually saying so Grigg and Mossop implied that I –” her voice trailed off.

“And the lieutenant believed them?” Uncertain whether he felt relieved or angry he gave her no chance to reply. “Indeed, why would he not? Evidence of your industry was all about him.” Guilt added to the crushing weight on his heart. He dared not tell her of his admiration for her courage, her strength of character, or even the breadth of her knowledge. To say anything would be to say too much. He would not be able to disguise the depth of his regard, his longing. And that would place an intolerable burden on her. But for how long could he continue to hide what he felt? Perhaps the lieutenant's arrival was fortuitous. He could leave now, honour intact, and spare them both. And if his heart were as battered as his skull no one but he would know.

He straightened, fighting increasing queasiness as he started to rise from the bunk. “I must see the lieutenant. My – my duty is to the frigate's crew, the fighting men.”

She reached out to stop him but withdrew her hand immediately, as if the move had been instinctive and only after had she realised what she'd done. She clasped her hands together, fingers entwined, the knuckles gleaming like bare bone in the soft light.

“And what about
Providence's
crew? They are not trained for battle like naval men. Their job is the safe delivery of mail and passengers. Yet because the enemy considers them fair game they are forced to fight. Had you wanted to be a naval surgeon, surely you would have joined a naval ship? In any case, surely a frigate the size of
Vanguard
will have at least one surgeon's mate and possibly several sickbay assistants?”

Though she kept her voice low she talked faster and faster, clearly driven by powerful emotions. But what were they? Disgust that he could so easily abandon men who relied on him for their wellbeing? Dismay that he might leave her to face Matcham? And she was right. He could not leave. He took a breath, but she had not finished.

“You made it very clear you resented having responsibility for me foisted on you. But I have tried hard to be more help than nuisance. And – and when I told you I did not require your guardianship you said I had no choice in the matter. If that is so, surely you owe a duty to my uncle? After all it will not be very long before you can hand me over to my – to Mr Quintrell. Then your obligation will be discharged.” Her voice cracked. “You will be free.”

Free to recall her courage, her compassion, her spirit, and every moment spent in her company. Free to miss her, to ache. Free to worry about her being ill used or unhappy.

“As you say.”He could not hide his bitterness and saw her flinch.

“I –” she cleared her throat. “I'll fetch something to ease your nausea. Excuse me.” Snatching up the bowl and salve she whirled out clearly oblivious of the slopping bloodstained water. The door slammed and he was alone with his thoughts. Lying back he gazed at the deck head, his wretchedness unconnected with nausea or injury.

Believing him angry, and that he held her responsible for being forced to remain aboard the packet, Phoebe withdrew into herself.

Losing eight men to the
Vanguard
had left
Providence
dangerously short handed. And though every man who could hold a hammer or sew canvas had been put to work on basic repairs, the packet would need a lot more done at the yards in Port Royal.

Phoebe was torn between wishing the voyage over so she would no longer have to face Jowan every day and dreading arrival at Kingston.
Providence
was a tiny world unto itself, everyone on board interdependent. It was cramped, smelly and uncomfortable. It lacked the conveniences she had always taken for granted. But she had found a friend in Mr Downey and won the respect and affection of the crew. She had survived a battle, greatly expanded her medical knowledge, assisted at two amputations,
and fallen in love.
And the thought of leaving was unbearable.

She coped with it as she had coped with losing her aunt, by keeping so busy she didn't have time to think. Working wherever she was most needed she changed dressings, removed stitches, applied salves, prepared draughts and tinctures. She rose early and retired late. And most of the hours in between she devoted to helping get the wounded fit enough to return to their duties.

It was inevitable that on occasions she found herself alone with Jowan. But as soon as the patients had been treated she quickly excused herself, citing medicines to be made or notes and records to be written up. And if sometimes she yearned to linger she would recall his bitter expression the day she had reminded him of his duty to the crew and to her uncle. That was all it took to make her flee. The guilt and shame of loving a man who did not love her, a man who was not her betrothed, was a secret she would carry to her grave.

As the crewmen recovered there was less for her to do. Both Grigg and Mossop began to remark on her pallor. Deeply preoccupied, Jowan had not yet done so. But it could only be a matter of time. Dreading the thought of free time with nothing to fill it, Phoebe sought out Downey who was delighted to see her.

“Who are the Maroons?” she asked, resting her arms on the rail, suddenly aware of how long it was since she had felt the warm breeze and tasted sweet fresh air. “Lieutenant Waddington said something about them being involved in an uprising.”

“Originally they were a gang of slaves who ran away from a plantation and made a home for themselves in an area of mountains and ravines in the north west of Jamaica. Their numbers increased over time and their leader, a shrewd African called Cudjoe, negotiated a freedom treaty that allowed them some land in return for which they would police the forests and capture runaway slaves.”

“Why are they called Maroons? It's seems an odd name.”

“It comes from the Spanish word
cimaron
, meaning wild or unruly. They might have been so at the beginning. But over the past sixty years, with no help from anyone, they have created businesses selling tobacco and cured meats.”

“Really?” Phoebe was astonished.

“And that's not all. Because the mountain passes are so difficult to negotiate and it can take days to get from one village to another, they developed a system of communication using a cow-horn as a kind of bugle. Every village has its own particular call. So important information can be passed along far more quickly than a man could carry it.”

“That's amazing.” Phoebe gazed out across the restless inky water. “Lieutenant Waddington said there has been an uprising and the militia have been sent in. What would have caused it?”

Downey shook his head, his expression grim. “I dare say it's something that could have been settled with a little tact and goodwill. Instead it has been blown out of all proportion by some clumsy and over-zealous government official.”

Phoebe was startled. “Forgive me, but what makes you so sure?”

Downey grimaced. “Experience of such men. There are two thousand regular troops stationed in Jamaica and seven thousand men enrolled in the militia. The Maroons total perhaps thirteen hundred. And I doubt even half of them will be involved in whatever is going on. The government's decision to send in soldiers is the equivalent of using a hammer to crack an egg.” He caught himself, drew a breath, and smiled at her. “I daresay it will all be over by the time we get there.”

Wearing a dress of white cambric and a wide-brimmed hat to shade her eyes, Phoebe watched the island of Barbados grow larger. The ink-dark swells of the Atlantic gave way to sapphire and jade that paled further as the ship skirted expanses of coral reef on the approach to Bridgetown. After so long at sea the intense greens of the luxuriant vegetation, strips of golden sand fringing the shore, and glimpses of fine colonial buildings flanked by smaller brightly coloured wooden shacks was startling.

Providence
anchored in Carlisle Bay, and while Mr Burley took the mail ashore to Government House and collected the bags for Jamaica and the return trip to England, other boats ferried fresh water, chickens and fruit out to the ship. After a few hours during which Phoebe had stayed by the rail absorbing the sights, sounds and smells,
Providence
weighed anchor and headed into the Caribbean.