Dangerous Waters by Jane Jackson

owe Mrs Bishop an apology,” he murmured. “She has far more experience of the world than you do. She would have said exactly the same had you given her the chance.” He looked past Phoebe. “Am I not right, my dear?”
    â€œIndeed,” Carina nodded. “But I understand that Phoebe has no desire for my opinion. And I am not at all offended. Everything has happened very quickly, and we must make allowance for her youth.”
    Phoebe clenched her teeth together. “I’m obliged to you, ma’am.” She turned again to her uncle. “Will someone have informed the surgeon of his additional duty?”
    â€œYou may rely on it.” He patted her hand. “Stop fretting. You know how to behave. Anyone spending time in your company should consider himself fortunate. And at least you will have interests in common,” he beamed. “That should make conversation easier.”
    Phoebe looked at him. He couldn’t be serious. Did he really imagine a ship’s surgeon would deign to discuss medical matters with a woman, especially one of her age – or rather her lack of it? But before she could think of a suitable response he patted her hand again then released it and gestured towards the door.
    â€œNo doubt you still have a host of things to do so I’m sure Mrs Bishop won’t mind if you take your leave.”
    Closing the door Phoebe pressed her hands to her burning cheeks, wincing at her uncle’s dismissal and the triumph in Carina Bishop’s eyes.

Chapter Four
    Gulls soared and swooped, shrieking and squabbling as they dived for scraps thrown overboard from incoming fishing boats. Between the shores of Flushing and Falmouth the wind-whipped waters of the inner harbour were grey-green and tipped with curls of white foam. Men were busy aboard ships of all sizes, some newly arrived, others preparing to leave. Between them punts, jolly boats and cutters darted to and from quays and jetties on both sides of the river, laden with trunks, stores and passengers. Customs officers were ferried from shore to ship and back again.
    The wind carried shouts, snatches of song, the groan of windlass and winch, and the crack of unfurling canvas as it flapped in the stiff breeze before being sheeted in.
    Jowan’s nostrils twitched at a sharp pungent smell that cut through the reek of rotting fish, seaweed, mud and sewage. Further along the packet ship’s sides, seated on a plank suspended by two ropes slung over the gunwale, a seaman was hammering oakum between two planks. His mate then painted on a thick coat of hot pitch to make it waterproof.
    Handing up the bulky leather bag containing his medicines and instruments Jowan clambered aboard the Providence . Glancing upward he saw men balanced on ropes slung beneath the foremast’s main yard working on the sail bunched beneath it. Other men were replacing rungs on the ratlines that rose in a narrowing rope ladder from either side of the ship to the mainmast top.
    Wood shavings pooled around the carpenter’s feet as he turned up a spar, and the sailmaker and his mate wrestled with a billow of canvas.
    As Jowan stepped onto the deck he was greeted by a short, almost square man wearing grubby canvas trousers and a faded salt-stained black jacket over a blue check shirt and red kerchief.
    Clasping a short length of thick rope whipped with cord at both ends, he raised one hand to his hat brim in brief salute. “Name’s Hosking, sir. Arthur Hosking. I’m the bosun. You’ll be the new surgeon. Mr Crossley, is it? Mr Burley said to expect you. Down below, he is.”
    â€œMr Burley?” Jowan enquired, picking up his bag.
    â€œThe sailing master, sir.”
    Jowan wondered why the sailing master and not the captain waited to greet him. But before he could ask, the bosun turned away bellowing over his shoulder. “Williams! Gilbert!”
    At the bosun’s shout two barefoot men set down