Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Main Street was slick from last night’s rain. The markets were setting up for the day, and he had to move deftly to avoid the clusters of townspeople, horses and boxcarts, wheelbarrows and wagons. Every corner swarmed with people: seamen and merchants, black-cloaked Quaker matrons holding tightly to their children’s hands, somber men in their broad-brimmed hats, rat catchers and peddlers, all going about their lives.

  In front of him, he saw a bonneted Quaker maid step right into the path of a fast-moving horse. He veered around two old salts and leaped into the street to swiftly rescue the woman. As he yanked her toward him and away from imminent danger, he heard her gasp.

  “Matthew Macy, take thy hands off me!”

  Bother. Of all the Quaker girls on the island to rescue, this one had to be Phoebe Starbuck. He lifted his hands in the air to show her that he heard and obeyed. “’Tis you, Phoebe? Hard to discern who is under that enormous coal scuttle. But then, that is what the Friends prefer, is it not? To wear blinders to life going on around them.”

  Ignoring him, Phoebe tugged at her bonnet, straightened her skirts, and dusted herself off.

  “Do I not deserve a thank-you for saving your life?”

  She frowned. “Saving my life might be an overstatement.” Another horse and cart thundered by, its wheels splashing her skirts, and she added, “But I am grateful for thy quick thinking.”

  “Had I known it was you . . .”

  She glared at him. “Thee might have let the horse run me down, no doubt.”

  “I was going to say . . . I might have let the Quaker brethren come to your rescue. But then . . . they all seem far more interested to hurry and greet the Fortuna than to notice a damsel in distress.”

  As he looked around the street, he realized he had unwittingly spoken truth—a crowd was growing near the harbor—though he had meant only to sting Phoebe. Being around her brought out a streak of malice in Matthew that he could not restrain. He seldom left her company without cutting her, or the Friends, with some small criticisms.

  As she recovered her composure, her dark brown eyes started snapping. She glanced up Main Street. “How did thee sleep last night? Was the stiff wooden plank comfortable enough for thee? And was a breakfast of gruel fully satisfying?”

  “Happily, I am a man with simple needs. I can sleep anywhere and eat anything.”

  “How delightful. The Nantucket gaol sounds like a suitable arrangement for thee.”

  And then her attention was diverted by the sight of someone she spotted, and Matthew used the opportunity to excuse himself. As he rounded the corner to Water Street, he turned his head and stopped abruptly. The sun was shining down on Phoebe, lighting her like a beam. Her bonnet brim was turned up and she was smiling as Phineas Foulger, captain of the newly arrived Fortuna whale ship, and his abominable daughter, Sarah, approached her.

  Why was Captain Foulger so soon off the ship? Most captains waited until the ship’s cargo was unloaded, anxious to overlook every barrel of precious oil and ensure it was accounted for in the warehouse.

  Then he saw the look on Captain Foulger’s face as he caught sight of Phoebe.

  A sick feeling lurched through Matthew. His mouth went dry, his palms damp.

  Why should he let himself be bothered? Many a night in gaol he had reminded himself that apart from his brother and mother, he cared for no one and nothing.

  It was hard to control the smile that strained to burst over Phoebe’s face at the sight of Captain Phineas Foulger advancing in her direction among the crowds of shoppers, sailors, and vendors, his elbow guiding his daughter, Sarah. Phoebe had to suppress the impulse to call out and wave, and the even greater one to rush toward the captain. When he did draw close, he took notice of her and stopped abruptly. The corners of his hazel eyes lifted, crinkling, and she took that as solid evidence of his approval, but she could also see he clearly did not recall her. Had she changed so very much?

  Suddenly seeming to remember the presence of his daughter, the captain took a step back. Sarah’s cold gaze swept over Phoebe’s homespun dress, and she said with a thin-lipped smile, “Hello. How pleasant to see thee.”

  “And thee as well.” In a pig’s eye, Phoebe thought, all the while she returned as warm a smile at Sarah as she could muster. She hoped Sarah Foulger could not tell the way her heart suddenly flew to her throat at the sight of her father, Captain Foulger, so tall and handsome. Salt-and-pepper hair, trimmed beard framing his chiseled cheekbones, sun-bronzed skin.

  Behind Sarah stood a fine-boned half-Indian boy, small and thin for his years, with large sad eyes that were almost too big for his face. His knitted sailor’s cap covered a head of thick brown curls. His arms were full of packages. Phoebe turned her attention toward him, mindful that she was “oversmiling” at the captain—and the sweet boy beamed in return.

  Suddenly the captain’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Well, I’ll be blowed—’tis Phoebe Starbuck?”

  His smile was so warm, so open, her heart leapt, capturing her devotion all over again. “Welcome home, Captain Foulger,” she answered. Oh, welcome, welcome home! You take my breath away. “A greasy voyage, I trust?”

  “Extraordinarily successful,” he said. “God blessed the voyage beyond measure.” His eyes appraised her. “Thee is looking . . .”

  Thee’s looking right womanly, Phoebe hoped were the words to come.

  “. . . quite contented,” the captain said.

  Contented? How does one look contented? ’Twas a compliment, she decided, though she would have preferred that he noticed how she had matured in his absence. “Today happens to be my birthday,” she said. Why on earth was she telling him that? She supposed she wanted him to know that she was no longer a girl, no longer just Sarah’s peer. Just Sarah’s seamstress.

  Phoebe rushed on. “My eighteenth birthday.”

  Rather than impressed, he seemed amused. “Is that right?” Sarah made a slight social cough signaling impatience and the captain glanced at her. “Sarah, did thee know it was thy friend Phoebe’s birthday?”

  Sarah gave her a thin smile, barely disguising her lack of interest.

  The captain turned his attention back to Phoebe, hazel eyes twinkling. Oh, how they twinkled! “And what has thou received today?”

  She dropped her head and lifted her drawstring purse. “My great-grandmother’s journal.”

  The captain’s face, alit with good-natured amusement only seconds ago, suddenly lost its smile and was replaced by a quizzical expression. His eyes riveted to her drawstring. “Great Mary’s journal? I thought its existence was a legend.”

  “Nay, ’tis no legend. My father said ’tis filled with revelations of her wisdom.” Of course, that was only his presumption. He hadn’t read it. How could he not have read it? It was a baffling thought.

  “As I was saying, Father”—Sarah’s attention was fixed on her father as if Phoebe were not there—“we ought to host a gathering. Friends would enjoy a gam with thee, hear of thy whale hunts, news of thy travels.”

  “A lovely idea,” the captain said, his eyes fixed on Phoebe.

  There was a pregnant pause, in which Phoebe expected Sarah to extend an invitation to her, but none was forthcoming.

  “We must not delay Phoebe from her . . . shopping,” Sarah put in.

  Feeling the bite of Sarah’s words—a dig at the fact that Phoebe did the shopping for the Starbuck household—she looked away. For all of Sarah’s Quaker airs, she made full use of servants.

  “Sarah, my dear,” the captain said, “I see my first mate over there by the apple cart, with his eyes fixed on us.”

  Sarah spun toward the direction of the apple cart so quickly she nearly toppled the packages in the boy’s arms. Phoebe reached out to steady the packages and the boy gave her a shy smile. Something about him touched Phoebe’s heart. “Is thee part Indian?”

  “His mother is a Lucayan-Arawak princess,” the captain said, his gaze still on the first mate.

  “And the
other part?”

  “Ah, who knows? A bit of this, a bit of that.” The boy gave him a hard look as the captain turned to his daughter. “Sarah, dear, would thee please find out what it is Hiram Hoyt needs?” He spoke gruffly to the boy. “Silo, go along with her.”

  The first mate was indeed staring at the captain. Hiram Hoyt had always struck Phoebe as a mournful man, though she wasn’t sure whether it was due to his scarred face, or the perpetual pipe sticking out of the left corner of his mouth that made one eye squinty, or mayhap it was his Nantucket Island heritage. His mother was a Wampanoag.

  Sarah excused herself with a nod so curt to Phoebe that it was chilling, but no sooner was she out of earshot—Silo obediently trotting behind her—than the captain caught Phoebe’s eyes. “I found the boy in the Bahamas and made him my cabin boy as a favor for his mother. Teaching him the ropes of life at sea, but ’tis no easy task. Silo, short for Silence. Deaf and dumb.”

  How sad. And yet the boy did not seem to be deaf.

  The captain smiled his charming smile and Phoebe nearly melted in its warmth. “Perhaps I will see more of thee while the Fortuna is in harbor.”

  “What is the plan for the Fortuna?” Please, please, please say the ship needs to be overhauled. Please stay in Nantucket for an extended period.

  But before the captain could respond, the first mate appeared at his side with Sarah and Silo and gave a nod to Phoebe. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I have a letter for thee.” Hiram Hoyt slid his hand into his coat pocket. “’Twas given me by another sailor who had just returned from the Bahamas.”

  The captain scowled at him, and glanced at Sarah, then Phoebe. “Excuse me,” he said while he slit it open and read it. His scowl deepened.

  “Bad tidings?” Sarah said.

  He slipped the letter into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Just a bit of ship’s business to take care of.”

  Sarah put a hand on her father’s arm. “Can it not wait? Thee has just arrived.”

  The captain hesitated, then warmth returned to his beautiful face. “Of course.” He glanced in the direction of the harbor and Phoebe knew that something in the letter made him distracted.

  Sarah tugged at his sleeve. “We must be on our way to Orange Street. I invited thy first mate to sup with us. To celebrate thy homecoming. Lunch awaits us.”

  Another awkward silence as Phoebe waited, hopefully, for an invitation. None was forthcoming.

  “Thus we must,” the captain said with a tolerant smile, “make haste.” He reached out for Phoebe’s hand and squeezed it, whispering, “But before the Fortuna sets sail, I do hope to see thee again.” He reached behind her to pull a long red rose out of a vendor’s bucket of flowers and handed it to her. “Happy birthday, my sweet Phoebe.” In one smooth motion, he tossed a copper to the vendor. She nearly swooned.

  A long motionless moment passed before Phoebe looked up to find his eyes upon her, full of her, taking their fill now. Reluctantly, it seemed, he turned away to join his daughter.

  As she watched him cross the street, she felt something powerful swell her heart. Sweet. He had given her a rose and called her his “sweet Phoebe.” She spun around, swinging Great Mary’s journal in her drawstring purse, giddy as a bee in a summer garden.

  Mary Coffin

  15 September 1658

  Tristram Jr. saw a Quaker today! I asked him how he knew, because he is the brother prone to tell outlandish tales. He said he could tell by the way the man was dressed and the peculiar way he talked.

  It is against the law to have much to do with Quakers. They are supposed to be terrible! Tristram Jr. said the man didn’t seem as bad as they are thought to be.

  It is all most confusing. Father says that the Quakers started in England only a few years ago. They claim to be Christians, but the General Court insists they are heretics, and accuses them of uttering blasphemies. These Quakers are said to despise government and to be disrespectful to magistrates and ministers. They say they are sent direct from God, like the prophets of the Old Testament. Sent to warn others of the path they are on, but Reverend Rodgers says they try to turn people from the faith.

  Father says the constable has warned everyone that they should have nothing to do with Quakers, and if a Quaker is found out, he is supposed to be whipped and locked in the house of correction until he can be sent back where he came from. Anyone found bringing Quakers here on a ship is supposed to be severely punished.

  What causes these peculiar people to cross the sea and come to our Massachusetts Bay? They are not wanted here.

  3 October 1658

  I had a dreadful scare today. It was early in the morning and I had gone down to the pond to fill a bucket with water. We’d had a storm last night, and the pond had filled up, and even the meadow near the pond was soggy. I slipped down the bank and twisted my ankle sorely, too sore to walk on it. I tried calling out, but the pond is a long way from the house and no one could hear me. I would have to wait until someone noticed I went missing. That could take a very, very long time, especially because Tristram Jr. talks a blue streak at breakfast and wouldn’t even notice I was absent. Then it started raining again, so here I was, stuck by the pond with a twisted ankle, getting soaked in the rain.

  Lo and behold, who should appear at the top of the pond but Nathaniel Starbuck! He tied his horse to a tree and made his way down to the water. He checked my ankle ever so tenderly and asked me if I hurt anywhere else. Then he lifted me in his arms like I was made of cotton and carried me home, as if I was a royal princess.

  It’s settled. I am in love with Nathaniel Starbuck.

  2

  8th day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  As Phoebe walked past the Pacific Bank, the manager ran down the steps to catch her and ask her in to his office. His name was Horace Russell, a gloomy man with a wattle and sagging jowls. Her heart sank as she climbed the steep steps to the bank.

  Horace Russell sat behind his desk and pulled out a thick file, opening it with a heavy sigh. Her heart sunk a little further. Wattle jiggling, he informed Phoebe that her father had defaulted on yet another loan, the mortgage loan for their house on 35 Centre Street.

  Relieved, she shook her head. “Thee must be mistaken. We have a mortgage button. I remember when my mother burned the mortgage papers and put them in the banister hole. I remember it vividly!” Phoebe’s mother had been so proud of that accomplishment.

  “There is no mistake,” Horace Russell said, jabbing a bony finger at the top of the sheaf of papers. “Last year, thy father took out a mortgage on the house for a new venture.”

  She peered at the open file. “That is simply not possible.”

  “’Tis entirely possible. Barnabas Starbuck needed a loan, he said, to make an investment. The only collateral he had to offer was the house—35 Centre Street.”

  “And thee gave it to him? Thee did not think to let me know?”

  Horace Russell stiffened. “I am letting thee know now. Consider this thy thirty-day notice.” He rose to come around his desk to say he was sorry. But not so sorry that he found himself unable to tell her that the Centre Street house was going to be auctioned off in thirty days if the funds were not forthcoming.

  Then he leaned close to Phoebe, too close, and softly whispered, “Mayhap thee and me, we could come up with some kind of suitable arrangement.”

  Phoebe gasped. He might think her poor, but she was not that poor. “Thee is an elder at Meeting, Horace Russell! Thee has a wife! And eight children.”

  “Nine,” he said gloomily.

  She frowned at him and stood up, holding her drawstring purse against her body to put space between her and Horace Russell. “I will solve this problem.” Her fears of being declared as Town Poor were no longer imaginary. If the house were taken, what would they do? Where could they go? Over the last few years, the Starbuck kin avoided them as poor relations, including them in fewer and fewer gatherings. Phoebe could not blame them—her father owed money to al
l of them.

  Ten minutes later, as soon as Phoebe stepped back inside her Centre Street home, hung her bonnet on its peg, and set down her drawstring purse on the tabletop, she mentioned her conversation with Horace Russell to her father. Barnabas’s face drained of all color. Frowning, he rubbed his stomach, insisted he wasn’t well, that he’d been laid low by a bad clam and ought to go lie down.

  He wasn’t fooling her; his chronic dyspepsia had always arrived with convenience. She built up the fire and heated water for chamomile tea to soothe his stomach, and just as she fished the tea leaves out of the pot, a knock came at the door. When she opened it, she could not have been more stunned at the sight on her stoop than if she had opened the door to a large gray squirrel.

  “Captain Foulger!” she cried, both hands to her face, her eyes wide in surprise and delight.

  He seemed pleased by her pleasure. “Good day, Phoebe.”

  “I was . . . just making a pot of tea for my father. Would thee like some?”

  “That sounds delightful.”

  He took a very small step into the keeping room, then another. As he glanced around, Phoebe appraised the room as he might: the set of hard, straight-backed chairs, the table and mantel with no decorative flourish, the threadbare settee. Only the woven rug had anything bright to offer. Then she noticed his eyes fall on her drawstring bag set on the kitchen table. Fall there and stay. He walked toward the table and sat on a chair, his hand resting on top of the bag. “Phoebe, I’d like to know more of the journal of Great Mary.”

  She looked at him, startled. “But why? I’m surprised thee is even aware of its existence.”

  “All the Foulgers know of it. But no one knew if it was real. And if it was real, where it had gone missing to. Not until today, when thee made mention of it.”