Dangerous Waters (11 page)

“Why?”

“To limit opportunities for slaves to meet each other. They fear further revolts,” he explained.

“But –” Phoebe met his gaze. “These have erupted anyway. At least they have on Saint Domingue.”

“True,” Downey agreed. “And how could it be otherwise?” Resting an elbow on the table, he rubbed his forehead

“Forgive me, Mr Downey. I fear I have wearied you – “

“Not at all,” he denied, straightening. “I am tired but it is from lack of sleep. In truth, Miss Dymond, I rarely have such an interested and attentive audience.” He beamed at her, his eyes twinkling. “Especially – “

“I do hope,” she cut in, raising her brows at him, “that you are not intending to qualify your remark with a reference to the fact that I am female.”

After a moment's surprise he grinned and slapped his thigh. “I knew I was right about you.” He leaned towards her. “Miss Dymond, you possess a mind more open and enquiring than many so-called men of learning I have encountered.”

“If that it so it may be because my own background is somewhat out of the ordinary.”

“I guessed as much. Were you perhaps a lonely child?”

Startled by the bluntness of his question, Phoebe studied him warily but saw only kindness in his gaze. She shrugged. “I was happy with my own company and I've always loved to read. Besides, from the time I went to live with my aunt and uncle, quite literally an orphan of the storm, Aunt Sarah allowed me to assist her.”

“What did you do?”

“To begin with I was given simple jobs like stripping elderberries and flowers from their stems and into a bowl. I think she wanted to see how quickly I got bored. Only I never did. From those very first moments I knew I was doing something important and useful. I used to feel a glow of excitement when I came in and saw one end of the table covered with bundles of dried herbs and roots, or basins filled with steeping leaves and flowers. As soon as I was old enough to stand on a stool without fear of falling off she let me watch her make decoctions and ointments. And she promised that when I didn't need the stool any more I might help. Never has any child been so anxious to grow! I was far too enthralled with all I was learning to have time to feel lonely
.” That had come later.
“But were we not talking about souls, Mr Downey?” she reminded, anxious to steer the conversation away from herself.

“Indeed, we were, Miss Dymond. And believers in vodou, as it's known in Saint Domingue, take safety of the soul very seriously indeed. Many will go to a
mambo
or
hungan –
a priest or priestess –
in order to have their soul protected from sorcerers, or indeed from anyone who might wish them harm.”

“How? I mean, what could the priest do?”

“First, with great ceremony he will take nail parings and a lock of hair from the supplicant and put them into a small bottle. Then the meat of a white cockerel that has been cooked without any salt or flavouring is shared with the supplicant's friends or family. While the meal is being eaten, a package of bread soaked in wine, rum, or cane juice, together with something sweet – maybe a small piece of sugar cane – is tied around the supplicant's head. Everyone must take great care not to break any of the cockerel's bones. After the meal the bones, the bottle and the package are placed in a little box. This represents the supplicant's soul and is hidden away in some secret place. Thus, though a slave's body might belong to his master, his soul is safely hidden elsewhere and remains free.”

“Why then do they dance?” Phoebe asked quietly. “They have little enough to celebrate.”

“That is not the reason,” Downey said. “They dance to reach a state of trance. It is their only escape, other than death.”

The gusting wind ruffled Jowan's hair as he examined a rope burn that had left an ableseaman with a ten-inch scar that curved across his inner arm from wrist to elbow. The pale pink streak was livid against the man's leathery sun-darkened skin.

“It's healing well. You were given olive oil to rub in?”

“Aye, sir,” The seaman nodded.

“Keep using it night and morning. It will protect the new skin and prevent it contracting.” Jowan nodded dismissal.

During the next hour he gave Blue Pills and mercuric oxide ointment to three men with syphilitic rashes, put a fresh dressing on a superficial leg ulcer, dosed an obvious malingerer with a strong cathartic and removed a large splinter from under the thumbnail of the carpenter's mate. By the time he had finished the wind was much fresher and the swell more pronounced.

Returning unsteadily via the fo'c'sle to the Master's cabin, now rigged as a sick bay with two hanging beds, he saw that the James's powder he had given to both fever patients had taken effect. Their faces glistened, beaded with huge drops of sweat.

Leaving Grigg to wash them and attend to any other needs Jowan crossed to his own cabin. Shutting the door he dropped his bag, crawled onto his cot, and lay with an arm over his eyes. He had tried telling himself the roiling discomfort in his stomach was due to something he had eaten. But he knew it wasn't.

He had believed himself prepared for whatever his new career might bring. He harboured no doubts about his professional expertise. But the possibility he might suffer from seasickness had never occurred to him. As well as feeling wretched he felt utterly foolish. For despite her desperate fear of the sea even Miss Dymond's stomach was proving stronger than his.

He couldn't give in to it. That would be too shaming. Besides, he had duties, responsibilities. There were records to be written up of patients seen and medicines dispensed. The men in the sick bay needed to be bled, and the cook's dressing changed. And according to Mossop this was just “a bit of a blow.” He would get used to it.
He had to.

Swallowing several times he carefully pushed himself up and swung his legs to the floor. Opening the medicine chest he took out a ribbed brown glass bottle. He was well aware of the risk he was taking. But he also knew his own strength and was clear about his reasons. He was not seeking escape or a permanent blurring of reality. All he wanted – needed – was a very brief respite to allow his body to adjust to the increasing motion of the ship. He poured a small dose into the measuring glass, tossed it down his throat, closed his eyes and waited.

Within seconds the horrible churning settled; soothed by a warmth that suffused his entire body. Replacing the bottle and glass Jowan closed the chest and returned to the sick bay and duties that would keep him busy for the rest of the day.

“I have to allow,” Romulus Downey confided, “that the dramatic descriptions of snake worship and magic cited by Mr Matcham and Mr Clewes do contain elements of truth. Vodou gods may indeed be represented by stones, plants, birds, animals, by water or trees, or even by symbols drawn on the ground. And it is true that gifts in the form of food or a sacrifice are offered to them. But that is only one aspect of cult practice. You see though many priests were among those captured and sold into – “

“Priests were sold?” Phoebe blurted, shocked.

“Oh yes.”

“But – “

“You have read that slave ships carry only the dregs of Africa, criminals and so on. That is what supporters of the trade would have you believe. But in reality slave cargoes have always comprised a broad cross-section of African society. No doubt some were criminals. But far more were not.”

“So who were they?” Phoebe asked.

“Perhaps prisoners of war. Or simply people who had offended someone in a position of power. The only comfort the priests could offer these poor unfortunates was to keep their religion alive. They did done this by teaching their fellow captives a simplified version of the names and characteristics of the gods, and the required rituals, dances and sacrifices. Though of necessity a very simplified version of a complex religion, this has been handed down through generations born in slavery on both Saint Domingue and Jamaica.”

“What kinds of gods and goddesses?” Phoebe asked, fascinated.

“Well, just as Christians believe in Christ the holy saviour as the epitome of goodness and the devil as all that is wicked and evil, so it is in vodou.
There are different families of gods. The
rada
loa
are gentle, helpful and good. But
petro
loa
are associated with magic invoked by obeah-men for evil purposes.”

Shivering, Phoebe rubbed her arms.

“My dear, I do apologise. I shouldn't have – “

“No, no, please. The air seems suddenly cooler that's all. Mossop was saying it would rain before nightfall. Please go on.” Phoebe caught herself. “Mr Downey, do forgive me. Perhaps you would prefer to be doing something else.”

”What could possibly be more rewarding that talking about my life's work to someone who shows such interest?” He beamed. “I am astonished at how much better I feel thanks to your magic potion.”

“Then please tell me a little more?”

“Well, just as human beings have different facets to their characters, so do the gods. The goddess
Ezili-Freda-Dahomey
belongs to the family of sea spirits and is the personification of feminine beauty and grace.”

“Like Aphrodite?”

“Exactly so. But another
Ezili
is
Ezili-of-the-black-heart.
And one of the most dreaded
loa,
a servant of the devil, is
Marinette-bwa-chech
whose emblem animal is a screech owl.”

Phoebe shook her head in awe. “How have you been able to learn so much about something so secret?”

“You will be amazed to hear that I have been permitted to attend certain of the rites and dances.”

Phoebe gaped at him. “Truly? But – but – what about the terrible punishment threatened for any slaves taking part in such ceremonies? How were you able to win their trust?”

But as Romulus Downey opened his mouth to tell her, the sound of footsteps on the companionway was lost beneath a hoarse cry of alarm followed by a clatter and several loud thuds.

Chapter Eight

“I fear that sounds as if –” Romulus Downey began.

“Someone has fallen down the companionway,” Phoebe finished, already on her feet. Thrown by the ship's movement she lurched towards the door. As she reached it Bernard Clewes staggered in supporting his colleague who was limping badly. Blood trickled from beneath the hand Horace Matcham pressed to his temple. His face was pale with shock.

“He s-slipped,” Clewes panted, holding tight to the wrist slung across his shoulders. “T-turned his f-foot when he went down.” His other arm was around Matcham's waist taking most of his weight. “The deck's w-wet and s-so are the s-stairs.”

“Sit him down here, Mr Clewes,” Phoebe indicated the bench. “Mr Downey, would you be so kind as to ask Mossop for a pint of cold water in a basin? I'll just –”

“B-beg p-pardon, M-miss Dymond,” Clewes eased the other man down. “I m-mean n-no offence, b-but m-might it n-not be w-wiser to c-call for the s-surgeon?”

Reaching for the handle on her cabin door Phoebe stopped as a tide of heat climbed her throat to flood her face. She had acted instinctively, forgetting that the two merchants knew nothing of her background or her skills.

“Of course. I'm sorry. I just – “

“Miss Dymond knows what she's doing,” Downey interrupted. “She gave me a potion that cured my seasickness.” He turned to Phoebe. “Can you do anything for Mr Matcham's ankle?”

Phoebe nodded, glancing uncertainly between the men. “I have a herbal tincture that would reduce the pain and swelling.”

“B-but you d-don't even know – how c-can you be s-sure he hasn't b-broken a b-bone?” Clewes's face creased in anxiety.

“I think it unlikely,” Phoebe said. “If it were broken Mr Matcham could not have borne to put weight on it. It's almost certain the injury is a severe sprain. But naturally you will wish to hear the surgeon's opinion.”

“You'd better be prepared for a long wait,” Downey warned. “The surgeon's first responsibility is to the crew. Two men are laid up with a fever and there was quite a crowd waiting by the mainmast when the bosun blew his whistle for sick call. It could be a while before Dr Crossley is free.”

He addressed the man slumped over the table, his head buried in his hands. “What do you say, Mr Matcham? Will you wait? Or will you place your injured ankle in Miss Dymond's very capable hands?”

Matcham looked up. Though his face was pale with shock his grimace of pain twisted into an expression that was almost a leer. “Miss Dymond will satisfy me very well.”

Phoebe turned away. The man had all the appeal of a toad. In fact if it came to a choice the toad would win.

“I'll find Mossop,” Downey said.

“Mr Clewes,” Phoebe glanced up. “While I fetch the tincture would you be good enough to remove Mr Matcham's shoe and stocking?”

When she returned with her case and opened it Clewes's eyes widened as he gazed at the contents. “G-good God! How d-did you c-come by all this? I've n-never s-seen – n-not outside an ap-pothecary's s-shop anyway. It m-must have c-cost a f-fortune.”

Smiling, Phoebe shook her head. “Not at all. I do sometimes have to buy new bottles and jars. But most people are very good about returning empty ones when they have used up what's in them.” After applying a salve to the cleaned cut on Horace Matcham's temple she wiped her hands on a piece of muslin. “As for the remedies, I prepared them myself.”

“
Y-you
?” Clewes's eyebrows shot up. “B-but you're only –” He broke off, pink and flustered. “T-that is to s-say – “

“It is unusual to find someone of my age and sex with such knowledge?” she suggested with only a hint of dryness.

“W-well, yes. I t-trust you will f-forgive my reaction, M-miss Dymond. It's j-just – I'm astonished. “

“It's true I am young,” Phoebe carefully poured out a teaspoonful of arnica tincture then tipped it into the cold water. “But age is not the only measure of experience.“

“Oh, well said, my dear,” Romulus Downey clapped his palms together.

“So how long have you been doing this?” Matcham demanded.

“I have been watching and learning since I was a small child. But if you are referring to the actual making of medicines and ointments, my proper training began about ten years ago.” Phoebe squeezed excess liquid from the saturated compress and bent to lay it gently on the bruised swollen flesh that was already beginning to turn blue.

“Good G-god!” Clewes repeated, his amazement once again getting the better of him.

“What's in that?” Matcham pointed to the small pot of salve.

“Comfrey, elder and marigold flowers in a base of sweet oil and beeswax. It's an excellent wound cleanser and quickly stops any bleeding.” Phoebe finished bandaging the compress in place and looked up. “How does that feel?” It was not simply the intensity of his gaze that disconcerted her, but the faint smile twisting one corner of his mouth.

“You have the touch of an angel, Miss Dymond. It is to be hoped Mr Rupert Quintrell truly appreciates the value of the jewel he has been so fortunate to win. Though I think it unlikely.”

As Clewes glared at his colleague Phoebe simply inclined her head. Straightening up she turned from the bench to put the unused bandages back in her case. This allowed her to keep her gaze averted as she spoke.

“I will leave the bottle of arnica tincture with you for now, Mr Matcham. Though I would appreciate its return when you no longer have need of it. The compress should be soaked and reapplied every four hours until the swelling has gone down.”

“I don't think I can manage by myself.”

Phoebe could feel his gaze on her like grubby fingers. She continued replacing items in the case. “I'm sure Mossop would be willing to assist you.” The look she darted at the steward combined apology with pleading.

His hands full of cutlery, Mossop glanced swiftly between Phoebe and the man whose bandaged foot rested on the bench.

“No trouble at all, miss. All part of the service.” He turned. “You want to be a bit more wary on those stairs in future, Mr Matcham.”

“Yes, thank you, steward. Much obliged I'm sure,” Matcham snapped. “If you have finished dispensing unwanted and unnecessary advice, perhaps you'd be so good as to inform us when we might expect our dinner?”

“Just about to, sir,” Mossop's tone was as bland as his expression. “Came in for just that purpose, I did. I'll be bringing it very shortly. If this wind gets much stronger I'll have to douse the fire.”

“I suppose that will mean cold fare tonight?” Romulus Downey ventured.

“'Fraid so, sir.”

“Ah well.” Downey turned to Phoebe and beamed. “In that case, Miss Dymond, I have even more reason to be grateful to you for that magic potion.”

Phoebe had returned her case to her cabin and was about to take her place beside Downey when the door to the fo'c'sle opened. As the surgeon entered she knew immediately something was wrong. Even allowing for dimness of the mess and shadows cast by the skylight his face seemed drawn. And there were dark rings under his eyes she was sure hadn't been there yesterday. It was a professional observation she told herself, looking away quickly. But the sudden small clutch at her heart betrayed a concern she had no right to feel. Aware of heat in her cheeks she edged along the seat.

“Well, doctor,” Matcham's eyes glittered as he turned from the surgeon sliding onto the bench beside him to look across at her. “Were you aware we have an angel of mercy among us?” His smile reminded Phoebe of a shark. “
We
are extremely fortunate. And it appears
you
have a rival.”

Phoebe's blush owed as much to confusion as to embarrassment at being the focus of attention. There was nothing in Matcham's words to which she could take exception. Yet his manner made her acutely uncomfortable.

“Come now, Miss Dymond,” Matcham continued. “There is no call for blushes, or false modesty. You do indeed have a magic touch. It certainly relieved
my
suffering.”

There it was again, that note of suggestiveness. But she had dealt with worse when out on professional calls. So she kept her face expressionless as she raised her head.

“You are kind to say so, sir. But I fear you exaggerate. An arnica compress on a sprained ankle is a simple but effective remedy. It owes nothing to magic."

“Mr Downey would not agree with you. I distinctly remember him using that very word while singing your praises. Is that not so, Mr Downey?”

“Indeed it is,” Downey agreed, glancing at Phoebe with a smile. “In fact, I would happily call her a worker of miracles.” He turned to the surgeon. “And what of your morning, doctor? How is the cook's hand? I hope he was able to prepare the crew's dinner. Mossop says that if the weather worsens the fires will be doused. So we must make the most of our hot meal for who knows when we may enjoy another?”

Jowan Crossley's expression hardened into a frown and a muscle began to jump in his jaw.

Interpreting this as anger at her encroachment onto his territory Phoebe dropped her gaze. With the benefit of hindsight she wondered if it might have been wiser not to offer assistance. But doing so had been instinctive.

On the opposite side of the table the two merchants murmured together, their heads close. Stifled voices and repressed gestures suggested an argument.

Phoebe glanced across at the surgeon who had served himself a small – very small – portion of the meat and vegetables. Something about his fixed stare as he chewed with slow deliberation stirred a memory. But before she could grasp it Downey addressed her softly.

“Is it my imagination? Or is everyone a trifle tense? I suppose it's the threat of bad weather.Were it not for you my dear, I would be dreading it.” His forehead furrowed suddenly. “You do still have plenty of that peppermint potion, I hope?”

Phoebe smiled. “I do, Mr Downey.”

He blew a sigh. “That's a relief. The thought of – well, best not to dwell on that.” He shot her a shame-faced grin.

The meal finished, Phoebe excused herself and stood up intending to fetch a book. The four men also rose: Downey and the merchants announced their intention of retiring to their cabins for a nap. She assumed the surgeon would return to the sick bay.

“Miss Dymond?” Jowan Crossley's manner was as unyielding as seasoned oak.

Reaching her cabin door Phoebe glanced back. “Yes?”

“A moment of your time if you'd be so kind.” He had come round the table and with his back to the mess indicated the passage. “In the saloon?” Politely phrased, it was nonetheless an order.

Silently she led the way. Acutely aware of his proximity she kept her face averted as he reached past her to open the door. As she entered she blinked at the brightness flooding in through the stern windows. After the gloom of the mess the daylight was a pleasure. It was also a relief to enjoy it without having to brave the spray-filled wind roaring across a deck whose lee rail seemed terrifyingly close to the heaving mounds of pewter-grey foam-streaked water.

Looking away from the stern windows and what lay beyond them she saw the saloon was empty. Presumably both master and mate were topside because of the deteriorating weather.
Had he known that?
Intuition told her the surgeon had brought her here for a scolding. Would he have continued had they not been alone? Bracing herself Phoebe turned to face him just as he spoke.

“May I ask why you didn't call me to attend Mr Matcham?”

“I would have had you not still been busy with the crew. But the matter was not serious and well within my capability.”

“With respect, Miss Dymond, I am the best judge of the seriousness or otherwise of any injuries sustained on board this vessel.”

“Indeed you are. But Mr Matcham seems in no way unhappy with –”

“Oh come now, Miss Dymond,” he interrupted sharply. “With you fussing over him is it likely he would complain?”

Phoebe stared at him, stunned by the strength of his anger.

Compressing his lips and tightening his jaw as if to physically prevent any more words escaping, he glowered back then abruptly turned away. “As to your capability –”

“You know nothing,” Phoebe stated, her chin high. They glared at each other. Realising that her response – an amalgam of anger, hurt, and other deeper more complex emotions – was open to misinterpretation she took refuge behind a façade of cool reason. “Perhaps, Dr Crossley,” she clasped her hands together, “the best thing would be for you examine Mr Matcham yourself. Then should you find my treatment lacking in any way you will enlighten me and I shall be suitably grateful.”

His narrowed glittering gaze and the rigidity of his expression distracted her from his pallor and the grape-coloured shadows beneath his eyes. “Miss Dymond, what made you think yourself competent to offer treatment in the first place?”

“Mr Clewes asked me the same question, though his manner was less aggressive and he apologised lest I should be offended by his enquiry.” She saw him open his mouth to reply but raising her voice gave him no opportunity. “I can only repeat what I told him and the other gentlemen. I am a trained herbalist.” Her experience and skills in midwifery were not relevant, nor were they likely to interest him.

His eyes widened and astonishment slackened the tense muscles in his face. He looked suddenly much younger. “When you say trained, does that mean you served a proper apprenticeship?”

“It does, and I did. My teacher was the best in the county.” Pride in Aunt Sarah enabled her to bear the still-sharp stab of loss without flinching.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I would have, had you given me the chance.”

“Given you – ? What are you talking about?”

“I offered my help earlier,” she reminded. “I would have told you then had you allowed me time to finish what I was saying.”