Dangerous Waters (10 page)

Grigg appeared, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Seeing her he raised his eyes skyward and clicked his tongue.

“Been one of they mornings, it have, Miss. Two men down with fever, then Slush near chopped his finger off.”

“Slush?” Phoebe repeated blankly.

“The cook, Miss.”

“I
am
sorry.”

“Not half so sorry as the men'll be if their dinner's late,” Grigg retorted grimly. “I'd best get on.”

As Grigg hurried towards the waiting men Phoebe heard Jowan's boots loud and fast on the stairs.

Bounding out of the companionway, he checked as he saw her. “Miss Dymond.”

“Dr Crossley, Grigg says you have several men sick. I wondered if I might be of help? I have –”

“Thank you, no,” he cut her short. “I don't doubt you mean well, Miss Dymond. But the injuries and ailments suffered by seamen are beyond the scope of a vinaigrette or hartshorn draught. Please excuse me.” With a curt nod he strode past her along the sloping deck.

Phoebe stared after the tall figure; her racing heartbeat loud in her ears as shock vied with fury at his snub.

Chapter Seven

Stung by the surgeon's rejection of her offer, Phoebe decided to return to the mess. Perhaps Romulus Downey would be willing to tell her more about life on the island that was to be her new home.No doubt the agents knew Jamaica at least as well as he did, perhaps even better. But she did not feel comfortable with either of them. Mr Matcham radiated bitterness and an anger that seemed on occasion to be directed at her, though she could not imagine why. Meanwhile Mr Clewes watched both his colleague and her with an anxiety she found unsettling. So as far as was possible she tried to avoid them.

She had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when Timmy Keast, the ship's boy, came through from the passage carrying a bucket. As he glanced up and saw her he tried to shield it from her gaze.

“Sorry, miss. If I'd known you was coming down I'd 'ave gone up through the fo'c'sle.”

“It's all right, Timmy. Don't concern yourself.” As she reached the bottom and he started past her she saw that the bucket was almost full of what looked like bits of greyish brown fur. “What on earth is that?”

“Dead rats, miss.”

A bucketful
?
Managing to mask her inward recoil, Phoebe tightened her grip on the rail. Two men were suffering from fever and Timmy was holding a bucketful of dead rats. Was there a connection? To betray horror or fear would achieve nothing. She must remain calm.
You are not alone on this ship.
“Do you know what killed them?”

“Mr Grigg's oatcakes, miss.”

“I beg your pardon?” Phoebe was startled.

“He made 'em up special. Put poison in them, he did.”

“Oh, I see. Is this –” she indicated the bucket,” – all?”

“Shouldn't think so.” Timmy wiped his nose with the back of a grubby hand. “Stuff do take a while to work, see? Then there's the job of finding them. Still, this is the third bucket this morning. So it look like it's working.”

The
third
bucket? “How are you disposing of them?”

“Over the side, miss. Too many to put on the caboose stove. In any case, Slush do say they stink even worse than the salt pork.”

As her imagination supplied images that made her wish she hadn't asked, Phoebe tried desperately to divert her thoughts. “Timmy, why is the cook called Slush?”

“On account of the fat, miss. From when the meat is boiled. He do skim it off, save it in a barrel, and when the ship get home he sell it to the soap makers. Course, some of it got to be set aside for greasing the foremast where the yards go up and down. But he don't like parting with it, miss. Not at all, he don't.” Grinning, the boy raised a finger to his forehead, sidled past, and hurried up the stairs leaning sideways to balance the weight of the bucket. His feet were bare. The callused and filthy soles made little sound.

In the short passage to the mess Phoebe steadied herself against the bulkhead.The sideways tilt of the floor had increased. And the slow rise and plunge as the brigantine rode the deepening swell tipped her first forward then back making it hard to keep her balance. As she staggered into the mess Mossop was fitting fiddle rails round the edge of the table.

He looked up. “Bit of a blow coming.”

Phoebe swallowed.
Coming?
It was going to get worse?

“Don't you worry, miss. You'll soon get your sea legs. Good sailor are you?”

Phoebe shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.” She couldn't remember.

“WelI, it looks to me like you're doing all right. Mind you,” he lowered his voice, “There's others I aren't so sure about.” With a speaking look whose significance she didn't have time to grasp he turned back to his task.

As Phoebe hung up her cloak, oddly reassured by the steward's conviction that she would be fine, dawning realisation made her pause. The fear that had clung to her like a dark shadow seemed to have diminished. It was still there, but fainter and less sapping. So much had happened – was still happening – she simply didn't have the strength to sustain intense fear
and
deal with the challenges that each new day at sea brought.

She was in a situation she had no power to change and over which she had no control. All she could do was accept each day as it came and try to make the best of it.

Returning to the mess she sat in her usual place at the table. “Mossop, have you seen Mr Downey?”

“I b'lieve he's just gone along the passage, miss. Looked to me like he was feeling a bit queasy. I reckon a chat with you would cheer'n up proper. Take his mind off things.”

“If Mr Downey is indeed suffering as you describe then a peppermint infusion will do far more than conversation to improve his comfort.”

Sucking air through his teeth the steward shook his head. “I haven't got nothing like that, miss.”

“Of course not. Why should you? But I have,” Phoebe said. “Would you be so kind as to bring me a cup of boiling water and a teaspoon?”

“Dare say I can manage that, miss.” He headed for his pantry.

Phoebe returned to her cabin and opened the case containing her remedies. As she inhaled the scent of dried herbs her head was filled with vivid images of summer, of days spent gathering leaves and blossoms. She recalled the balm of the sun's heat and the lazy drone of bees around the hives in the garden. The painful sense of loss, of yearning for what had gone and would never be repeated, was acutely painful. Her hand went to the valerian bottle. About to grasp it she hesitated. There was still a long way to go. Fear raised gooseflesh on her skin. Better not to think of that. But once the bottle was empty there would be no more until she reached Jamaica. She must be strong and hold out until she really needed it.

Taking out a jar of honey and two linen bags, one containing crushed dried peppermint leaves and flowers, the other dried camomile, she closed the case and left it on her bunk. As she emerged and shut her door Mossop returned with a steaming jug.

“I brung two cups, miss.” He lowered his voice again. “Seemed more sociable like. The gentleman might be a bit uncomfortable drinking alone, specially if need was seen as weakness.”

Phoebe was surprised by the steward's sensitivity. “Thank you, Mossop. That was very thoughtful.”

Downey lurched into the mess from the passage, a handkerchief to his mouth, his round face wan and miserable.

“Oh, Miss Dymond. I must ask you to excuse me. I am feeling woefully ill.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr Downey. I am just making myself an infusion. I'd be delighted to share it with you.” Placing a heaped teaspoonful of dried herb in each cup Phoebe poured on hot water and added a small amount of honey.

Downey mopped his glistening forehead. “You are kind. But I fear that if I stay I might embarrass us both. I think I should go and –” He sniffed, his brows puckering. “Is that peppermint?”

Phoebe nodded. “A wonderful settler and very soothing to the digestion. Please, do sit, Mr Downey. You
will
feel better, I promise." Picking up her camomile tea, she took a sip.

He slid carefully onto the bench. Then wiping his forehead and upper lip once more he drew the cup towards him and lifted it with shaking fingers. After several sips he turned to her, his expression softening as the strain melted away.

“That is remarkable. Astonishing, in fact. Miss Dymond, you are an angel.”

Phoebe laughed. “I am nothing of the sort, sir. However I do have some knowledge of herbs and their properties. I take it you are beginning to feel a little better?”

”Much better.” He leaned forward a little, confiding. “In truth, Miss Dymond, I had begun to wish I had never set foot on this ship. Usually when I travel by sea I bring a bottle of laudanum. When the weather turns bad I sleep for days and so escape the worst of the discomfort.”

Phoebe quickly raised her cup to mask her shock at such improvident behaviour with a powerful drug. Downey took another sip of his own infusion and sighed.

“I bought one from an apothecary in Falmouth. But I fear the servant I entrusted with my packing either forgot to put it in my trunk or else decided his need of it was greater than mine.” He sipped some more. “This is indeed a miracle potion, Miss Dymond. And I am more indebted to you that I can say.”

Phoebe smiled, pleased to see colour returning to his cheeks. He was visibly more cheerful.

“May I ask how you know about such things?

“I was taught by my aunt. She was an expert in the use of herbs as medicine. I wonder if you are sufficiently recovered might I ask you about your studies?”

“Might you ask – ? My dear Miss Dymond, I am honoured by your interest. I imagine that being a herbalist yourself you are interested in the myal cult?”

Phoebe nodded. “How did it come to Jamaica?”

“With the Aradas negroes from Dahomey who were captured and sold into slavery. Despite threats of dire punishment if they are caught performing any of the rites and rituals they refuse to abandon them, for this is all they have left of the life they were forced to leave.”

“They must be very brave.”

“There are those who think them very foolish,” Downey said. “But courage is not all they require. The ritual dances demand a great deal of energy. And this from men and women already worked to the limit of human endurance. Their willingness to deny themselves desperately needed rest and sleep is a testament to how much their religion means to them. One wonders,” he remarked wryly, “how many plantation owners would do as much for their Christian faith.”

Cradling her cup in both hands, Phoebe frowned. “I don't understand. Why are the owners so opposed to it?”

“Fear,” he said simply. “The slaves' skin colour, way of life, beliefs, even the food they prefer, is different from ours. They are thought of as animals and treated as such. But the truth is that no matter how white men might wish it otherwise, blacks are human beings too. And no man can act with deliberate cruelty towards his fellows yet remain untainted. A slave trader will justify his actions by claiming that negroes are savages. And because they are not Christians they and their dances and drumming must therefore be instruments of the devil. But that is fear talking. Myalists believe as strongly in the soul as Christians do: perhaps even more so. For what man can call himself a Christian then commit acts of brutality so appalling –” He broke off, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Miss Dymond. I – sometimes I forget myself. I would not wish to upset you.”

Phoebe swallowed. “It is an upsetting subject, Mr Downey. I had not realised – “There was so much she had been unaware of, or had shut her mind to, overwhelmed by its enormity and her own helplessness. But she was going to Jamaica to marry a plantation owner. Never again could she tell herself it was not her concern. “But that doesn't mean we can simply shut our eyes and pretend horrors do not exist. And yet – didn't I read somewhere about slaves arriving from Africa being offered baptism? And those converting to Christianity being welcomed and well treated?”

His expression reflected sadness and cynicism. “That was indeed the original intention. In fact it was cited as moral justification for the slave trade. But it's an ideal seldom observed. In practise most negro slaves are denied any religious instruction.” He spread his hands. “From whom would they receive it when, as Mr Clewes mentioned at dinner, planters refuse to allow clergy on their land?”

Now Phoebe understood much more clearly the reason for the planters' reluctance. They would not want any visiting priest seeing evidence of ill-treatment or brutal punishment. She recalled William Quintrell's jovial manner, the glimpses of a darker personality behind the heavy charm, the tremor in his hand, and the amount he drank. But surely he could not be one of those men of cruelty? For if he were Uncle George would never have welcomed him. Would he? Just how well acquainted were they?

Uncle George might know nothing at all about the way William Quintrell ran his plantation. Surely he would have wanted to find out?
Why would he? Uncle George ran his ship as he saw fit. He would consider other men of business entitled to the same freedom.
Yet he must have seen, as she had, numerous newspaper articles concerning the slave trade, and still others agitating for its abolition.

Yet whatever practices William Quintrell might or might not have employed in running the plantation he was no longer in charge. He had handed over control to his son
who had expanded the cane fields and doubled production
. Still, Uncle George must be convinced she would be in safe hands. Otherwise he would never have agreed to her betrothal
.
She had to believe that. Because to doubt would mean he had sent her away not caring what happened to her. She could not bear even to contemplate such an appalling possibility.

Phoebe moistened her lips. “Surely not
all
plantations are run by barbaric methods?”

Downey gazed into his cup. “I have visited only a few. But I would like to believe not.”

Though this did nothing to allay her deepening unease Phoebe forced a smile. “Thank you, Mr Downey.”

He looked up. “For what, Miss Dymond?”

“Being as honest as courtesy allows.”

“I have too great a regard for your intelligence to be anything else,” he said simply.

The compliment, clearly sincere, brought warmth to her cheeks. She set her own cup down. “It is easy to understand that owners would not want their slaves hearing gospel teachings about the equality of all men before God.”

“Indeed not. Though given the inefficiency and corruption of a large portion of the clergy there is little likelihood of that happening. I understand they are currently charging £3 to baptise a slave. As you might imagine few owners are willing to pay. Not only do they claim the blacks would be unable to understand the complexities of Christianity, they have even petitioned for a cut in the number of Saint's days and religious processions.”