Dangerous Waters (20 page)

It was July now: the days hot, the nights warm and humid. Sleep, already difficult, became almost impossible for Phoebe. Most of the men were back at work. Grigg looked after the few who still needed care.

Phoebe took up her journal again. She spent some time on deck with Downey each day, then when the master went topside she retired to the saloon. Being alone meant she could put aside the mask, drop the pretence of looking forward to arrival in Jamaica. She could sit on the padded bench seat, gaze out through the stern window at the ship's wake and try not to think at all.

She sometimes saw Jowan taking sick call at the mainmast. Often she wouldn't see him for the rest of the day. Except at mealtimes. And she found that strange. Because though he sometimes ate very little he still came to the table. Though his silent presence beside her was torture it protected her from Matcham's attentions.

Obviously some kind of exchange had taken place between them. She had no idea when it had occurred or what had been said. But though she sometimes sensed the merchant's eyes on her, he no longer attempted to draw her into conversation. Nor did he make any further insinuating remarks about Rupert Quintrell. Most nights he remained at the table after the meal was over and drank himself into insensibility, relying on his colleague and Mossop to put him to bed.

One morning she stepped out of the companionway onto the deck and sensed a change. There was more banter among the crew who were tackling their tasks with new enthusiasm. Before she could ask one of them knuckled his forehead, a grin splitting his face.

“We'll reach Jamaica tomorrow, miss. Best look to your packing if you want to be ready.”

Chapter Sixteen

“That is Fort Charles,” Downey pointed to the squat building of weathered red brick on the end of the long narrow spit of land they were passing. “It was the only one to survive the earthquake.”

Phoebe gazed out over the stern quarter as
Providence
sailed into a vast and crowded harbour. “The only one? How many forts were there?”

“Six.”

“Why so many?”

“Because a hundred years ago Port Royal was the wealthiest town in the Caribbean. Houses here cost more to rent than in the most expensive parts of London.”

“And all that wealth came from trade?” Phoebe was impressed.

Downey hesitated. “Not exactly. There was trade of course. But most of town's prosperity sprang from piracy and its attendant evils; drink and – and so on.” He faltered and Phoebe nodded, pretending she hadn't noticed. But her profession, coupled with growing up in a port, meant that despite her youth she was well aware of prostitution and its tragic consequences.

“So when the earthquake struck and the sea swallowed up two thirds of the town the clergy declared it to be God's revenge.”

“Did many die?”

“Over 2000. Yet some escaped. And in ways that were little short of miraculous.”

Fascinated, Phoebe turned to him. “How? What happened?”

“During the first shock huge crevasses opened up and hundreds of people tumbled into them. One was a man named Louis Galdye. When the next tremor forced all these gaping fissures closed, crushing everyone inside them, he should have been killed. Yet somehow he wasn't. Instead he was catapulted out into the sea. Fortunately he could swim. And he managed to stay afloat until a boat picked him up.”

Phoebe stared at the scholar. What he had told her seemed utterly incredible. Yet he must believe it for he would never deliberately tell her a falsehood. “Are you – ? I mean – “

“Am I sure? And how do I know?” he smiled. “No, no, it's all right.” He patted her arm, stopping her apology before she could speak. “I scarcely believed it myself until I visited St Peter's churchyard and read that very same story etched on his gravestone. And his wasn't the only astonishing escape. The quake was followed by a massive tidal wave that hurled a ship called
The Swan
onto rooftops in the centre of the town. Not only did it land on its keel, it remained upright, providing shelter for those who were able to climb aboard.”

Awed, Phoebe shook her head and looked once more towards the spit of land. Now
Providence
was through
the gap she could see the town. “But all it looks so – established. It's hard to believe it was ever -“

“A heap of rubble? Port Royal was far too important to the British government to be left in such a state.”

“Why? I thought you said it was an evil wicked place.”

“And so it was. But don't forget it was also the centre of Caribbean trade. Not only that, the huge sheltered harbour made it an ideal base in the West Indies for the Royal Navy to store supplies and make repairs. So rebuilding began immediately.”

“But if so many had died and so much was destroyed how could those who were left
afford
to start again?“

Downey raised one shoulder. “By returning to what had built the town in the first place.”

Phoebe caught her breath. “Piracy? Surely the British government would never – “

“Oh they would,” Downey said dryly. “And they did, claiming necessity as justification. And I have to accept that they had a point.” He pointed east beyond the town to a busy area of wharves and docks that rivalled Falmouth. “That's the naval dockyard. Though we have come direct from Cornwall, our voyage has lasted almost seven weeks. Naval vessels are at sea for months, sometimes years. What would become of our ships and men if there were nowhere for them to make repairs in safety? No source from which to obtain fresh food and water or materials with which to make repairs.” He pointed again. “You see that long low wooden building on this side of the town? That's the naval hospital. It's the only place in this part of the world where sick and wounded English sailors can be put ashore to receive treatment.”

Phoebe bit her lip as, amid the chaos in her head, she heard once more her uncle's damning condemnation of the calibre of doctors sent out to Jamaica.

The sky was brassy with heat, the breeze thick with humidity. Beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat perspiration prickled Phoebe's forehead and the nape of her neck.

Ships of every size, shape and nationality crowded the harbour. Some rode at anchor, others were dropping canvas to slow their approach, or setting sails as they headed seaward. The packet's route across the busy waterway took her past two dilapidated hulks moored side by side, their topmasts missing.

“Have they been in a battle?” Phoebe asked. Before her companion could reply she heard the muffled sound of men shouting and caught her breath at a foetid stench carried on the breeze. “Ugh. What on earth – ?“

“They are prison ships,” Downey said.

Phoebe looked up quickly. Opening her mouth to ask why men were confined in rotting ships when there must be gaols in Port Royal and Kingston, she closed it again. The answer was obvious. The prisons ashore must already be full. Lieutenant Waddington had spoken of refugees flooding in from Saint Domingue. Clearly it was not only the wealthy and well-to-do who had escaped the uprising. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the thieves and murderers had followed those on whom they preyed.

Downey patted her arm. She wasn't sure if he was attempting to offer comfort or distraction. Glad of either she looked to where he was pointing. “There is Kingston.”

Shaped like an open fan the town spread over a plain that rose gently from the waterfront to the foothills of the Blue Mountains. Behind the forest of masts crowding the busy waterfront, elegant buildings of stone and brick dazzled in the blinding sun. The distant mountains were purple-hazed, the lower hills intensely green.

This was the end of her voyage. It was time to abandon any foolish dreams and half-formed hopes. Arrival at Kingston meant leaving the ship and its familiar routines, saying goodbye to people she had come to think of as friends
and so much more.

“I must confess there were times when I wondered if we would arrive safely.” Beside her Downey sighed, resting his arms on the rail. “But here we are.”

Phoebe said nothing. She didn't dare open her mouth, afraid that instead of making a polite response some other sound might emerge: a desperate cry, a wordless plea. She had not looked for – had not intended – had fought so hard, and lost. And now she would lose again. She caught the soft inner flesh of her lower lip between her teeth and bit down hard, finding in the sharp pain a brief respite from agony she wasn't sure she could bear.

“My dear, are you all right?”

Darting a helpless sidelong glance, Phoebe saw the concern furrowing his round pink face soften to sympathy.

He clicked his tongue. “A foolish question, undeserving of an answer. You have come half way around the world to begin a new life among strangers. Of course you are feeling nervous. It would be odd indeed if you were not.”

The shrill tones of the bosun's whistle followed by thudding feet made him look round. Phoebe drew a deep shaky breath. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Relieved and grateful for his assumption and his understanding, she pulled herself together. She must not fail now.

“They are making ready the jolly boat to take Mr Burley ashore with the mail,” he observed, raising his voice so she might hear him above the increased activity.

Phoebe looked forward along the deck and saw the huge gaff mainsail being lowered. Up aloft men were bent over the foremast yards gathering up canvas and lashing it in place.

“Time to go below,” he smiled, offering his arm. “It will soon be our turn to leave the ship. As soon as he can spare them the bosun will send men down to carry up our trunks.”

Phoebe nodded, still not trusting her voice, and let him guide her to the companionway.

In her cabin she removed her hat, wiped her damp forehead with a crumpled square of lace-edged lawn, and sank onto the edge of her bunk alongside her wooden medicine chest.

For the past two months
Providence
had been her home, the link between a past she could never return to and a future she begun to dread. She had learned so much aboard this ship. But the most unnerving discoveries were those she had made about herself. She was not the person she had believed herself to be. Nor could she simply
unlearn
what she now knew. Yet if such a thing were possible, would she choose it?

If her uncle had placed her in the care of Romulus Downey for the duration of this voyage she would have arrived in Jamaica with her mind broadened and her heart intact, reconciled to the future arranged for her by her uncle and William Quintrell.

Instead fate had made Jowan Crossley her guardian. When for the first time at the bottom of the companionway stairs she had met his gaze directly the shock had been profound. Everything she had known and trusted and believed in had shifted, and the world – apparently unmoved – was no longer the same. In that instant she had recognised that what had happened was irrevocable.

Why had life played such a cruel trick? Throwing them together just long enough for her to recognise the qualities that set him apart from other men. Just long enough to realise that what she had tried to convince herself was merely admiration and respect was in fact something far deeper, and far more damaging to her future peace of mind.

The conflict between desire and duty was tearing her apart. And yet there
was
no choice. Jowan Crossley had befriended her, treated her kindly, and shown genuine respect for her skills. He had fulfilled the obligation thrust upon him as her guardian. But his recent coolness as the end of the voyage approached made very clear the limit of his interest.

Had she, in spite of all her efforts, inadvertently betrayed herself? Was his reserve a warning? Had he deliberately created this distance to spare her humiliation and himself embarrassment?

Heat blossomed beneath her ribs, climbed her throat and flooded her face. She pressed cold palms to her burning cheeks. Her anguish was punishment for breaking her vow. Had she not sworn never to risk her heart again? She had adored Aunt Sarah. Yet that love paled beside her feelings for Jowan Crossley. And the pain was all the more acute for being self-inflicted.

Once Jowan had handed her over to Rupert Quintrell he would return to the ship and she would travel to the plantation. She would never see him again. There would be no more arguments, no more discussions, no more teasing. Never again would she watch his frowning concern soften to surprise and relief as one of her remedies took effect. Never again would she experience the privilege and terror of assisting him, awed by his deftness and skill as he set shattered limbs and repaired torn flesh and muscle.

But she would remember. And she would not taint their parting with embarrassing tears. Pride was all she had left: pride and memories. But these were so vivid, so powerful, they must be put away until the wounds had begun to heal and the scars would not break open again. Her pride was strong, but not strong enough. To get through the coming days with any semblance of serenity she would need help.

Her fingers were shaking as she opened the wooden case and surveyed its depleted contents. She took out a small brown bottle. Thank God she had waited. Removing the stopper she gulped down a mouthful, shuddering violently at the bitter taste. Breathing deeply to combat nausea she sat perfectly still, waiting.

Beyond the tiny cabin doors opened and slammed. She heard voices, thuds, grunts and scraping sounds as trunks were hauled out into the mess.

The powerful tincture began to work its miracle, warming away the painful tension in her stomach, soothing and loosening over-stretched nerves, blunting the jagged edges of grief and apprehension. She replaced both stopper and bottle. As she closed the case there was a rap on her door. Releasing a slow deliberate breath, she rose and opened it.

A crewman she had treated for splinter wounds raised scarred knuckles to his forehead. “Come for your trunk, miss.”

“Thank you.” Phoebe stepped out into the mess to leave room for him.

“M – Miss D – Dymond, I w-was hoping to s-see you.”

“Mr Clews.” Phoebe nodded politely as he came round the table.

“I j-just w-wanted to s-say th-that I c-count it a p- privilege to h-have known you. And – and I w-wish you very h-happy.”

“Thank you, Mr Clews.” Wrapped in the sedative's effects, calm and untouchable, Phoebe inclined her head.

“Want me to take yer wooden case as well, miss?” The crewman enquired behind her.

Phoebe turned. “No, thank you. I'll bring that.” As Clews stuttered his farewells to Downey, both were ushered towards the companionway by the burdened crew. Phoebe crossed to the pantry and tapped on the open door. “Goodbye, Mossop. Thank you for – everything.”

Abandoning his ledger the steward rose from his stool. “Off, are you, miss? Dear life, 'tisn't you should be thanking me. I don't know where we'd 'ave been without you and that's God's own truth. You'll be missed something awful. And not just by me and Grigg neither.”

For an instant hope flared, bright as a spark from a beacon on a dark night. It faded and died as the steward continued.

“I tell you straight, miss, there isn't a man in the fo'c'sle won't be sad to see you go. Half of 'em wouldn't be alive now if it wasn't for you. Nothing against the surgeon, God bless'n. But he didn't have nothing like your herby stuff. Worked bleddy miracles that did, miss, begging your pardon.”

“Thank you, Mossop.” Phoebe was aware of her mouth smiling. Her vision was clear, her eyes perfectly dry. Like an ebbing tide the anguish of imminent separation and anxiety about what was to come had receded to lap softly at the furthermost edges of her mind.