Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Daughter! Thank heavens! I knew not where thee had gone!” He lifted his palm in a wide arc. “Someone has ransacked the house!”

  “What . . . in the world . . . has happened?” She peered into the back room and it too was topsy-turvy, with rusted pots and pans upended on the floor. She pressed a hand to her hammering heart and turned to Zacchaeus Coleman, the town constable. “Who might have done such a thing? What were they seeking?”

  “Three ships came into port this week,” Zacchaeus said in a helpless voice, “filled with sailors from foreign lands. The foreigners head for the taverns while the islanders head for home.” He gazed around the room with a frown. “What is missing?”

  What could they possibly have stolen? Phoebe was dumbfounded. The Barnabas Starbuck household had very little worth stealing. Anything left of value had been sold off to bury her mother.

  Her father made his way around the table to the fireplace and turned a pewter mug upright. “A few coppers I had left on the mantel.”

  The constable scribbled it down on a piece of paper. “What else?”

  Her father made a luffing sound and crossed the room to his desk. “My plans for a new enterprise!” He lifted the desk lid. “Ah, thank heavens. They are still here.”

  Phoebe took care not to exchange a look with the constable, but she knew what was rolling through his mind. Who would steal the business plans of Barnabas Starbuck? No one.

  Phoebe hurried upstairs to find that the thief had entered the upstairs bedrooms as well. Her father’s room was helter-skelter, her room had been turned upside down. Her wardrobe door was open, her dresses strewn on the floor. A silver hairbrush remained on the candlestand, one of the few items that had belonged to her mother.

  A curious smell filled her bedroom. She sniffed the air. Musty, salty, smells of the sea. And what else? She noticed something on the rug and bent down to touch it. Tobacco ashes. She rubbed a finger in it and held it to her nose. Pokeweed, a cheap but common tobacco with its own stink. She closed her eyes. The thief could have been anyone. Anyone! She lifted the window sash to air out the room before she went downstairs.

  “So then,” Zacchaeus said when he saw her, “anything else amiss?”

  “Not amiss,” Phoebe said. “But much a mess.” All was upset but the stew cooking in the pot—that remained untouched. She wasn’t sure if she should be insulted or if the thief was simply not hungry. Too busy looking for something . . . but what?

  “Nothing seems to be taken other than my coppers,” her father said. “Five of them. Be sure to write that down. Five coppers. So, Zacchaeus, what are the chances of capturing the thief?”

  The normally buoyant constable looked forlorn. “None.”

  After the constable left, Phoebe looked at her father. He still seemed befuddled.

  “I am astonished, Phoebe. How could this be? We cause no one any harm. Why would God allow such a thing on us?”

  Because God seems to favor some of his children above others. It was a truth she was well acquainted with. But that was not how she answered her father. She took her time before she spoke, uprighting chairs, picking up broken pieces of pottery, sweeping up smaller shards. “I think it is simply what the constable said it to be. Sailors from foreign ports do not know us. They do not care whether we cause harm or not.”

  Her father sat down at the table and leaned on his elbows. “Tea, daughter. I need tea to calm my nerves.”

  A loose shutter banged against the house. The wind was rising. Phoebe drew the curtains, lit the candles, and added driftwood to the bed of coals. The sparks flew as she blew on the wood, and smoke became a small flame that caught and grew. She put a kettle of water on the crane to boil as she prepared two cups for tea. By the time the kettle whistled, the keeping room was tidied up. The rest of the house could wait. “Father, may we speak of something else?”

  “Speak, daughter.”

  She handed a teacup to her father.

  “I believe that Captain Foulger has . . . ,” she kept her eyes on the tea, “taken a fancy to me.”

  Her father spewed out his sip of tea. “Phineas Foulger? Taken a fancy to thee?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Nay, nay.” His gray queue bounced upon his shoulder. “Yet thee is but a maid, he must be twice thy age!”

  She gave him a look. “Father, thee was more than twenty years older than Mother. And thee has always said I am overly mature for my age and the captain is hale. Hale and hearty.” And astonishingly handsome.

  Barnabas set his teacup on the table. “This day continues to bring distressing surprises.”

  “The robbery was distressing, I agree. But why would it distress thee to hear of Captain Foulger’s interest in me?”

  “Has he spoken of such interest?”

  She sipped thoughtfully on the hot tea. “No. Not yet. And he knows not my feelings for him. I wanted thy blessing first.”

  “Blessing? Blessing!” Her father’s eyes went wide. “Phoebe, has he given any indication of . . . serious interest?”

  She sighed. “Nay.”

  He seemed relieved. “Well, then, I shall cross that bridge when I come to it. If it comes at all.”

  She rubbed at a bit of candle wax that had dripped onto the tabletop. “What if that bridge is not far off?”

  “The Fortuna is soon to set sail. He said so himself . . . standing right here in this keeping room.”

  She sighed again. How well she knew.

  “I would not see thee harmed, daughter.”

  “Harmed?” She almost laughed. “Father, Captain Foulger would never hurt me. He is highly respected in the Society of Friends. He is . . . incorruptible.”

  “No man is incorruptible.”

  Mayhap. Except for Captain Foulger.

  “Heed me, daughter. He needs an older woman to serve him well as wife.”

  “What if . . . he agreed to cover the defaulted loan on the house mortgage?” She dared not examine her father’s face, but she could see his fingertips making a church steeple that opened and closed. That piece of information, she knew, made the entire subject another kettle of fish.

  Barnabas reached out and put his hand over Phoebe’s. “Tell me, daughter, why does thee think the captain is the man for thee? If I could get a satisfactory answer from thee, I will give the union my blessing. But I do not consider this temporary financial setback to be reason enough.”

  Phoebe rose and stood by the fire. How she longed for a sense of security, of solid footing. Was that so very wrong? Passion without substance led people astray, made an idol out of feelings. It seemed to be characteristic of her father—he followed his heart straight into poverty.

  She knew how her father was perceived by others—she heard under-the-breath comments about his imprudent endeavors, about the stink of sheep on his clothes. It was ironic, in a way, because sheep raising had been the backbone of the island, up until England had discovered illumination by whale oil.

  For a moment, Phoebe’s thoughts traveled to her great-grandmother’s journal. Mary Coffin knew what she wanted, even as a girl. It was possible to navigate one’s own destiny. She swung around to face her father. “Captain Foulger is . . . Father, he’s everything I want. Thee is just going to have to trust my judgment.” She lowered her eyes to the rug, noticing a new hole worn through.

  Then she looked up. Her father was staring at her as if her face had suddenly become unfamiliar to him. He did not smile. His eyes did not waver. His voice was steady, determined. “Thee has always had a strong will, Phoebe. Once thee sets thy mind on something, I have been unable to dissuade it. I fear this is the same situation. If the captain were to ask for thy hand, I will not withhold my blessing.” He paused. “I just ask thee to remember that thy life is very precious. It is not to be wasted.”

  As Phoebe noticed her father’s hands clasped together in his lap, rivered with blue veins, dotted with age spots, she did not need reminding about the brevity of life.
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br />   The very next afternoon, Phoebe was sorting sheets for mending when a knock came at the door. When she opened the door, she suddenly felt as if all air had been sucked from her lungs. There stood Captain Foulger, smiling; his kind, intelligent eyes were tenderly searching her. “Phoebe, my dear, the afternoon is unseasonably warm. I hoped thee might like to take a turn with me.”

  She smiled. “I’ll get my bonnet.”

  As they strolled toward town, Phoebe felt self-conscious from the stares of neighbors. At one point, at the bottom of Main Street, she nearly stumbled and the captain put his arm about her waist to steady her, letting it linger there for a moment longer than necessary. She felt a warm sensation spread from head to toe, like a snowflake melting beneath the warm rays of the sun.

  Down by the water, they stood watching the ships rocking gently at their anchors, wrinkling the glassy surface of the water, their masts dark against the azure sky. The captain’s eyes sought out and fixed on the Fortuna.

  “Is all well?”

  He startled as if he’d forgotten she was there. “I apologize, Phoebe. I fear my mind swam off to the ship.” He turned to her, reaching down for her hand, lifting it, and to her great surprise, kissing it.

  His mouth was soft and warm, and when he released her hand, his eyes met hers and she felt her knees begin to shake. She hid her flaming cheeks by dipping her chin and searched her mind for a question to distract him from her silly girlishness. One question had been circling her mind the last day or so. “Captain, I might ask a favor of thee. Does thee know of any employment opportunities?”

  “For thee?” His hazel eyes were full of empathy. “Sarah told me that she had dismissed thee. I am sorry, Phoebe. It was not my intention. But a man cannot be faulted for spoiling his only daughter.”

  She felt her cheeks growing warm and gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay. Not for me. For my father.”

  He studied her face in such a way that she felt he understood all she did not say. “Perhaps thy father would consider signing on to a whaler. There is always need of crew. Alas, not the Fortuna. My loyal crew has signed on for the next voyage.”

  She shook her head. “My father would not leave the island.”

  “Ah, yes. Barnabas is a landlubber.”

  Ouch. There was no slight worse on Nantucket than calling someone a landlubber. But it was also true of her father, and she could take no offense.

  “I’ll give thought to the matter, Phoebe. Cheer up. Let’s speak of happier things.”

  Two swans flew overhead, landing down the beach. “They are so lovely, graceful and elegant. ’Twould be wondrous, would it not, to live like a swan? To bring joy to all who gazed upon them.”

  The captain stared at Phoebe a moment. “Thee finds such pleasure in small things. I am surprised . . . given thy father’s circumstances. I would expect thee to covet silver over swans.”

  Her lips tightened. “My father’s circumstances do not make the swan any less lovely, nor the pleasures of nature any less sweet.”

  The captain’s eyes shifted to the swans that stood at the edge of the gentle surf. Phoebe’s gaze lighted on his hair, and she wondered if it was as wiry as it looked. Then, embarrassed by her silly mental ramblings, she whirled around to face the harbor.

  “So how goes the journal reading?”

  Great Mary’s journal? It troubled her that the captain brought it up each time he was with her. Was she boring him? Saying stupid, infantile things? She hoped he realized she could discuss other things. “I have just begun to read it. The ink has faded. It is not easy to read more than a small portion at a time. It requires bright sunlight.” And a great deal of squinting.

  “And what wisdom does Great Mary have to impart?”

  “So far, not much more than a girl’s rambling thoughts.”

  “I am eager to see it.”

  A pair of screeching gulls flew overhead, but she kept her eyes on the water, watching it slosh around the wharf pilings. “If thee wants the journal, thee must be beholden to the journal’s owner.” Had those words truly just come from her mouth? How audacious! She felt her cheeks grow warm, then hot. A moment passed, then another. And still no response from the captain. She chanced a glance at him.

  There was a quizzical half smile on the captain’s face that she could not interpret. Startled? Pleased? Confused? Disdainful? She held her tongue, but her heart began to beat with an unpleasant heaviness.

  “Well, then,” he said at last, as he guided her elbow to walk back toward Main Street. “I will see if I can find employment for thy father. Perhaps there is something Hiram Hoyt can find for him to do.”

  Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear me. She had been hinting at an altogether different kind of beholden.

  Mary Coffin

  28 February 1659

  That day, that day, that day . . . I feel like such a fool.

  I had refused to accept Heppy’s rumor about the pending engagement between Nathaniel and Elizabeth until a few days ago, when I saw the two of them with my own eyes, strolling through the town with nary a care. Nathaniel’s cheeks were red with cold, and he was laughing at something Elizabeth said. Elizabeth Macy! Who hardly says a word other than to answer a question with an aye or a nay, and does not have an amusing bone in her body!

  I considered ducking into the apothecary to avoid them, but it was too late for that. Nathaniel spotted me and lifted his hand in a friendly wave. I mustered my courage, straightened my back (Elizabeth is so tall!), and prepared to greet them politely despite the pain that was searing my heart. Suddenly, Elizabeth tightened her grip on my Nathaniel’s elbow and turned him abruptly into the baker’s shop so they would not cross my path. And he let her do it!

  My stomach twisted into a tight knot and has not unraveled since.

  That day, that day. How could I be so naïve?

  7 March 1659

  I have tried to not think of Nathaniel since that day. But that means I must not think of my future. Every dream, for as long as I can recall, has consisted of being alongside Nathaniel. Heppy said that my wild imaginings are my undoings, and that I must face the situation hardheadedly.

  She has not ever been in love.

  17 March 1659

  The General Court ordered the whipping of Ezra Winchester for the crime of heresy. It was found out that Ezra hosted a secret meeting in his home with two Anabaptists to discuss the doctrine of infant baptism. Reverend Rodgers learned of the meeting and warned Ezra to repent. Ezra said he had nothing to repent of, for he was merely listening to the men. Reverend Rodgers said it grieved him deeply to turn Ezra in, but there was no other way to prevent the spread of erroneous beliefs.

  Ezra was fined 20 shillings or 20 lashes. He refused to pay the fine, as he felt it would be an admission of guilt and he believed he had done nothing wrong. So he was marched over to the town square, near the stocks, and whipped in plain view, for all to see. Father and Nathaniel Starbuck made their way through the crowd to help Ezra when it was over, to get the poor man home. And for their trouble, the constable carried them off to spend the night in jail. Father and Nathaniel had not even attended the secret meeting held in Ezra’s home!

  As one can imagine, Father is furious, but it is a cold, silent fury. Most unlike him. Even Tristram Jr. is walking on eggshells, taking care not to provoke Father to annoyance with foolish antics as he normally does.

  Something has changed in our town with the flogging of Ezra Winchester. It feels as if winter has descended.

  6

  17th day of the ninth month in the year 1767

  In the cooperage, Matthew Macy sat on a wooden bench that he pulled next to the window to catch the full benefits of the slanting afternoon light. At his feet were curls of wood shavings. In front of him was a partially constructed barrel, with wooden staves that had soaked in a vat of water overnight to make them pliable, then he toasted them on a fire. The moisture and heat made the staves flexible enough to bend into a barrel shape, waiting to be fitted
into a jig, a metal hoop that holds the staves fast. Barrels were constructed onshore, then dismantled and packed aboard ships to be reassembled as needed when whales were captured. An efficient use of space and time.

  The door opened quietly and Matthew paused, listening for the familiar sound of his brother’s light footsteps. He set the knife down that he’d been working with and braced himself for the loud “BOO!” that came from behind him.

  It was their daily routine. After Jeremiah had been dismissed for the day from school (sprung from the cage, he called it), he would sneak into the cooperage and try to scare him. Matthew always played along, jumping or dropping tools in fright.

  “Works every time,” Jeremiah said proudly, as Matthew feigned a heart attack.

  “What’d you learn in school today?”

  “Absolutely nothing. A complete waste of time.” His brother squinted and held a finger in the air. “Wait! I learned that Lillian Swain wears pink bloomers.”

  “Better not let Mother hear you.” The boy’s lightheartedness flooded Matthew with a sense of happiness.

  Jeremiah grabbed an apple from the stoneware bowl, aimlessly polishing it on his coat. “Guess who I saw walking up Main Street?”

  “Pretty much everybody.”

  “Phoebe Starbuck. She stopped me and gave me a horehound candy.”

  Phoebe. He had not seen her in three days. The admiration in the boy’s voice was apparent. “Why do you like Phoebe so much?” he asked. Certainly, she was fetching, but Jeremiah was too young to notice such things. Mayhap not, though, if he was already observing pink bloomers.

  His forehead wrinkled in concentration as he fiddled with a knife. When the boy finally spoke, his answer stunned him. “She listens to me like what I say matters.”