Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  He explained the captain’s offer to her—of the overly generous lay of the profits, of the dismissal of the gaol sentence. He left out Barnabas’s request to be Phoebe’s minder.

  “So what do you think? Would you be in favor of me heading out to sea? Could you manage?”

  She had her eyes on the candle forms as the wax hardened. The frilled brim of her white cap shaded her forehead so that he couldn’t read her expression. “We’ll manage, Matthew. We’ll always manage.” She lifted her head. “But I’m not so blind I can’t see what’s behind this.”

  He studied the hearth’s fire, flame licking the pot of wax. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think thee does. The entire island is abuzz with news that Phoebe Starbuck will be on the ship. Thee’s been besotted by Phoebe for as long as I can remember.”

  Matthew turned to look at his mother. “Hold on. Phoebe and I . . . that’s old history.”

  “I know, I know. But that hasn’t stopped thee from wanting her.” His mother could always size up the situation and read it correctly. To Matthew’s further amazement, his mother said one more thing. “She’s wrong.”

  “Who?”

  “Phoebe Starbuck. Thinking thee has nothing to stand on in a gale.”

  “She’s no longer of any concern to me. She’s going to be another man’s wife.”

  “She’s marrying that man to save her father from ruin.”

  “She’s a Starbuck. Hardly near ruin.”

  “She’s a sheep-raising Starbuck, not a whaling Starbuck. There’s a difference. Her father’s always had a talent for betting on the wrong horse.”

  Matthew rose to his feet. “You’re wrong about one thing. Phoebe loves Captain Foulger.”

  His mother scoffed at the thought. “If she thinks she loves him, then she doesn’t know him.”

  “And you do?”

  “I knew him when he was still in knee pants. I’ve always thought he loved himself best of all.”

  Matthew’s mother had gone to school with Phineas Foulger. He’d learned from his aunt that there was a time when the two fancied each other, but Phineas ended up marrying Elizabeth Swain, an heiress. He was never quite sure what had soured between his mother and Phineas.

  He heard the sound of his young brother, Jeremiah, running up the shelled path toward home. “Well, then, if I have your blessing, I’ll tell the captain that I’ll be going.” He gave her a weak smile. “Off on the Fortuna to make my fortune.”

  “Keep thy suspicions from Phoebe. They would but trouble her and change nothing. Thee has no evidence from Henry Coffin. Merely grumblings from a disgruntled old man. No evidence to stand up in a court of law.”

  He could not deny that.

  “Matthew. You’ll not dishonor the captain in any way.”

  “O’ course not.”

  “Mayhap thee should consider praying before thee gives the captain an answer.”

  Matthew felt the sting of her words, for he had not thought to pray. “There is always the difficult matter of discerning clarity from the Almighty.”

  “Aye, ’tis true.”

  His mother did not realize he was mocking, and he thought it best not to alert her. It would be nice to believe that there was something, someone, out there who responded to the questions of mere mortals. But now was not the time to rankle his mother. “The will of God, it seems, is often clouded and elusive.”

  “Sometimes,” she added thoughtfully, “the Almighty does not answer us in full, but merely nudges us in the direction of his choosing.”

  He rubbed a hand along the tabletop. “The sole condition the captain put on me was that I’m to give up the drink.”

  A smile creased his mother’s face. “In that case, son, I’ll help thee pack.”

  Mary Coffin

  9 February 1660

  Peter Foulger is a surveyor as well as a missionary to the Indians. I have yet to make his acquaintance, but Father speaks of him with a great deal of respect.

  Nathaniel Starbuck stopped by the house with a survey map of Nantucket Island that Edward and Peter Foulger had drawn up. His father, Nathaniel said, insisted that without Father’s determination, negotiations would not have moved so quickly last July. Father seemed pleased by the praise. I was not at all surprised to hear that. My father is a determined man.

  He unrolled the handwritten document and held it against the window. “Nathaniel, come and decipher your father’s poor penmanship for me. I wonder who taught him to write? It looks like something the hens scratched.”

  It was like a cloud descended in the room. “I have no time to waste,” Nathaniel said in a gruff way. He left without finishing his cup of mullein tea, which I know he finds dear.

  Even Father, not the most sensitive of souls, noticed Nathaniel’s coolness. “He’s a tetchy one.”

  “You shouldn’t have compared his father’s handwriting to chicken scratch,” Mother said.

  “Oh bother,” Father muttered. “’Twas a mild jest.”

  “Mother’s right,” I said. “Edward has worked hard to support this endeavor and Nathaniel has had to do the work of two men in his father’s absence.”

  Then Father got huffy and rolled up the map, tucking it up on the hearth to be dealt with another time.

  Later that night, Father asked me to stay downstairs after Mother and John and Stephen went to bed. He asked me to look over the survey and to help him seek out lots to lay claim for himself and for my brothers, including Peter.

  I asked him to describe this land to me, as vividly as if I were sailing into the harbour.

  “’Tis called Cappamet Harbour along the northern side of the island to the west. We chose it because the waters are deep, providing relatively deep anchorage for incoming ships.”

  “What is the shore like?”

  “Steep, without sandy beaches and mucky marshes. That was my concern about the harbour to the east. I am considering this lot here.” He pointed to the land that embraced the harbour. “Rolling hills surround it, which will protect the house and gardens from the sea’s relentless winds.”

  I pointed to the lots on the other side of the harbour. “If Peter were to lay claim to this lot, Coffin land would ring the harbour.”

  Father looked up in delight. “And then Coffins would be at the very center of this new place.”

  He is an ambitious man, my father.

  I was rather pleased with his confidence in my ability to read and reason. I took care as I read through each page and felt assured that all was within reason. Father describes this island as a Garden of Eden. A Paradise. I am most intrigued to see it for myself.

  And I must say, Father’s assessment of Edward Starbuck’s handwriting was accurate. It did look like a hen had scratched it out.

  15 March 1660

  ’Tis a settled matter, Father said tonight. And so we are moving to this faraway island.

  I find myself eager to see this place that will become home.

  2 July 1660

  I have counted over 100 men, women, and children who have chosen to relocate to Nantucket. Here is a list of the heads of family:

  Tristram Coffin

  Edward Starbuck and his son Nathaniel (Edward has remained on the island since last July)

  Thomas Macy (relocated in October 1659)

  Thomas Mayhew (from the Vineyard)

  Richard Swain (son John is a Quaker)

  Thomas Barnard

  Christopher Hussey

  John Swain (He insists on taking his elderly mother along. Poor old Rachel Swain. Mother fears old Rachel’s will be the first grave to dig. A gruesome thought! I do not want to think on first graves dug on the island. I want to think on first babies to be born.)

  William Pile

  Thomas Coleman

  Robert Barnard

  Robert Pike

  John Smith

  Thomas Look

  Stephen Greenleaf

  Stephen Hussey (He is a Quaker who confirms to
me that Quakers are not right in the head. This man will argue about anything and everything.)

  Each family, I have discovered, has their own reasons to leave their homes behind and seek out a new life, far away from the mainland. Some, like Thomas Macy, to have distance from the invasive Puritans. Some, like Edward Starbuck, to Christianize the Indians. Some, like my father, to seek economic success. Some for adventure.

  May God bless each one of us.

  9

  1st day of the tenth month in the year 1767

  Today was Phoebe’s wedding day. She felt as if she were in a dream, one that delighted and surprised her, one from which she did not want to wake. After Meeting, on the afternoon tide, she would be sailing away from Nantucket Island. And as the wife of the whalemaster!

  She remained in bed much longer than she should have, thinking of how few were the days in a woman’s life in which she woke up as one person and would retire at day’s end as another. Tonight she would be Mrs. Phineas Foulger. She was keyed up so tightly it was impossible to relax. She couldn’t stop imagining the thrilling adventure she was soon to embark on. Imagining the joy of seeing Captain Foulger’s charming smile each and every morning.

  She must be packed and dressed and breakfasted in time for Meeting. When she rose, she was disappointed to look out the window to find that fog had moved in and settled low over the town, like a gray shroud. She couldn’t even see the harbor from her window. What a gloomy start to her wedding day! Rain brought good luck, sun brought good tidings. But fog? It brought only dreariness.

  She found herself continuously checking the clock, and finally, when it read eight o’clock, she combed and recombed her hair and twisted it into a knot. Her aunt Dorcas had loaned her daughter’s wedding dress to her, made of silk. Beige, not gray! It was made in the fashion of the day, as Dorcas and her husband were well-to-do. A two-piece dress made of brocade, gathered in the front and very long in the back, with a blue silk cord laced across from side to side attaching the skirt to the bodice. Very elegant. And shoes! They were made of the same material as the dress, pointed at the toe and with very high heels. They were a size or two too small for Phoebe, but she did not mind.

  After the ceremony at the meetinghouse, Captain Foulger planned a celebration meal at 28 Orange Street. Phoebe would don a white apron for the lunch, a thin gauzy material tied with a wide blue ribbon and a large bow in front. She felt rather . . . special, quite fashionable in these borrowed clothes.

  As Phoebe modeled the dress to her father, his eyes grew misty. From paternal sentiment, she assumed at first, but she was wrong.

  “Dearest Phoebe, I fear thee might be making a grave error.”

  Deeply shaken, Phoebe looked at her father. The possibility that she was about to commit a grave error was not one she dared to contemplate. She had set her foot on this path, and she could not, would not, turn back. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me on this.”

  Barnabas’s eyes grew dim with sadness, as if a candle had suddenly been snuffed out. She wished to say something to ease her father’s pain at her leaving but could think of no words that would serve.

  As she walked down the stairs, she stopped on the last step to finger the small ivory-colored mortgage button with her hand. How well she remembered the day it had been drilled. Her mother had received a small inheritance from her mother and promptly took it to the bank to pay off the mortgage before her father could touch the money for his enterprises. Her mother had used an awl to make the hole in the newel post, carefully added the ashes of the house’s papers, and topped it with a scrimshaw button. A tradition unique to Nantucket. “We’ll never have to worry if we have a roof over our heads,” she told Phoebe as she set the papers aflame with a lit torch.

  Unless her father happened to mortgage the roof.

  Phoebe wondered if her father’s business ventures might have turned out differently had her mother not died. Would he have settled on one career and made some kind of success of himself? Mayhap. The women of Nantucket had the say of things. With husbands so much at sea, they were in charge of domestic affairs and money matters.

  Today should be the happiest day of Phoebe’s life, and yet she was suddenly filled with overwhelming and anxious thoughts. She realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled, letting go of the mortgage button and continuing into the keeping room.

  The captain was sending a servant to fetch her chest, and her father was still readying himself, so she pulled Great Mary’s journal out of the trunk and sat by the window to read a scene or two, hoping it would settle her mind. It had a soothing effect and she often felt herself slipping into another world as she read. Slowly, Phoebe blew out a long breath. She thought she was starting to understand Mary Coffin. She was a girl who knew what she wanted in a man, and she was bound and determined to marry him. Was that so wrong? Phoebe thought not.

  She closed her eyes and asked God’s presence to fill her with the peace she so often received during Meetings. She should feel . . . blessed. Not anxious or troubled, nor burdened. Her father would be provided for, the house would remain his, and she would be having a sea adventure with a man she adored. Today was her wedding day!

  A knock came at the door and there was the captain’s cabin boy, Silo. Phoebe felt a tenderness for the boy as he lived in the shadows of Nantucket society (she understood that). This morning, surprised that he was the one sent to tote her trunk, as he was small and the chest was large, she hurried to slice a large slab of gingerbread cake for him. It was good to see the child’s smile light up his usually serious face.

  After the flurry of loading her chest onto the cart, the morning was gone and it was time to cast off to Meeting. Slowly.

  Silo was not accustomed to horse and cart, and knew not when to ruffle the reins of the lagging horse. “Silo, keep thy rudder still!” her father cried, jostled from side to side in the back of the cart.

  Nearly everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Phoebe as Silo helped her climb down from the captain’s wagon and turn to make her way toward the meetinghouse doors. She felt pinned in place, queasy under the gaze of so many observers. Somber elders stood clustered in their flat-crowned, broad-brimmed hats and long coats, bonneted matrons covered with black cloaks huddled in clumps, despite the warmth of the day.

  Phoebe felt a hand on her elbow and realized the captain was beside her. She exhaled, relief flooding her body, anxiety evaporating. She tilted her head to get a look at him. How dashing he looked! How regal. A cardinal among sparrows.

  “Thee looks frightened,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe I am. A little.”

  They began moving through the crowd, walking easily in step until they reached their rows. The captain dipped to the left while Phoebe took her place on the right, with the women.

  The assembly began to settle as they parted. There was no need to look to know who was present. For all the talk of equality, the rows were filled from front to back in a quiet and tolerated hierarchy—it was something that had always rankled Matthew, she recalled. In the front were the Facing Benches, where the elders and ministers sat. At their feet sat the Coffin, Starbuck, Foulger, Hussey, and Macy clans, along with the rest of the original families, descendants of the first proprietors who sailed to Nantucket one hundred years earlier and never left. The captain took his place among them. It was said that everyone on Nantucket had one of those proprietor surnames, was married to one, or wanted to be one.

  Behind them, the Gardners, Mitchells, Colemans, and their kin occupied two more benches, along with other captains and shipowners and their families, whose fortunes grew greater each evening as people in London depended on illumination by whale oil.

  Farther back were those whose livelihood rested upon the people in front: sailmakers, coopers, ship chandlers, blacksmiths, mapmakers. Without the front rows filled, they would be out of work. Barnabas, he sat in the back row.

  The actual wedding ceremony took place at t
he end of Meeting. It was simple and unadorned, as in the Quaker faith, marriage was not a sacrament but a covenant between man, woman, and God. Nearly every Quaker in Nantucket was there but for Matthew Macy, who stubbornly refused to apologize to the elders and thus remained disowned. Phoebe expected as much.

  But Phoebe had not expected the absence of Sarah Foulger. Overcome by a dreadful headache, the captain had explained to Phoebe in a sorrowful whisper.

  In a pig’s eye, Phoebe thought, but she only smiled at the captain and told him she understood completely. He took her hands in his, and looked into her eyes in that way that made her heart race, and said, “I take thee to be my wife and promise with divine assistance to be unto thee a faithful and affectionate husband until death do us part.” Phoebe then repeated the words to the captain.

  Then—very suddenly, it seemed—the ceremony was over. Phoebe felt rooted to the wooden planks, as if glued to them, knowing beyond any doubt that this was the most important moment in her life, in any woman’s life. All that ever happened was wedded forever to this place and moment.

  After a lavish celebratory supper at the captain’s house—in which Sarah remained sequestered in her chamber because of her dreadful headache—the captain rose to his feet, thanked everyone for coming, and said, “The tide waits for no man. Wife, we must make our goodbyes.”

  So the time had come.

  Phoebe fought back a tear as she bid farewell to her father. As the captain helped her into the carriage, he said, “Thee remembered Great Mary’s journal, did thee not?”

  “Of course I packed it.” She settled her skirts in the carriage and then remembered she had left the journal on the mantel. “Oh no! I took it out of the chest to read while I waited for Silo to come. He startled me with his knock and—”

  Captain Foulger’s face became suddenly solemn—an expression Phoebe found oddly chilling—perhaps because his charming smile disappeared so completely. “Stop the horse!” Eyes flashing, the captain shouted to the driver at the reins. “Stop! Turn the horse to Centre Street, 35 Centre Street. Make haste!”

  He seemed so alarmed that she searched to find words to calm him. “Captain, the journal is over one hundred years old. It will be waiting for us when we return.”