Phoebe's Light

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Perhaps one of us should wait while the other passes.”

  “Why is thee on this ship?” Why, why, why? Of all people!

  “Captain Foulger asked me to sign on. Begged, actually.”

  “I still don’t understand. He had a cooper.”

  “Apparently, due to seamen’s assumption that the Fortuna’s luck had run out, his entire crew bailed on him.”

  She had heard such rumblings. “And thee?”

  “Me? The captain offered a lay of the profits I could not refuse.” He looked straight at her then, directly into her eyes. “Are you all right? You don’t look at all well. Your face is a funny color.”

  Phoebe turned abruptly and walked to the railing. “Matthew, what time is it?”

  “Did you not hear the bells? They sound every hour. They just rang twelve times.”

  “Twelve?”

  “’Tis the noon hour.”

  How long had she slept? Or tried to sleep? She felt exhausted.

  He leaned his elbows against the ship’s railing. “Phoebe, you don’t have the glow I would expect from a new bride. Don’t tell me you’ve got a touch of mal de mer?”

  “More than a touch.” She scowled at him. “How long does it last?”

  He shrugged. “It’s different for everyone. I’ll grant you this, it’s a doozy of a storm.” He peered up at the blue sky.

  Something in his words alarmed her. “Present tense. Why did thee use present tense?”

  “Because we’re in the eye of it now. The dirty side is coming soon. Far worse than what we’ve endured.”

  “That can’t be possible!” She looked around at the upper deck. “The whale! They lowered one of the whaleboats. I heard the shouting.”

  “Aye. A stray whale, separated from its pod. They’re trying to reach it while we are still in the eye. If they can catch it, they’ll drag it to the ship and tie it to the side until the squall passes. Then they’ll start the flensing.” He shielded his eyes from the sun and scanned the sky. “So far, so good. ’Tis a slow-moving squall with an extremely dry eye. They might have luck.”

  “Isn’t that a dangerous undertaking for the crew? Surely the captain wouldn’t expect his men to risk their lives during a storm. Even for a whale.”

  A laugh burst out of him. “Welcome to the whaling life, Phoebe. High risk. High rewards.” He turned at the sound of one deckhand calling to another. “Actually, ’tis good practice for them. I highly doubt they’ll catch the beast. This crew is unseasoned.”

  A wave of dizziness swept over her and she grabbed the railing.

  “Phoebe, how long has the seasickness lasted for you on prior sailings?”

  She fixed her gaze on the still water. Eerily still, like shimmering ice. “I don’t know,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

  “Surely you’ve set sail to the mainland. Even . . . the cape?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head. “Once. I was horribly ill. But the water was choppy.”

  “Ocean water is far choppier than Nantucket Sound.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “Are you telling me that the captain agreed to take you on a whaling voyage when you had never been on a ship? He has taken on a greenhand bride?”

  She let out a deep sigh. “He did not know.”

  “Oh, Phoebe. Did you assume you’d be immune to many a sailor’s malady?”

  She frowned at him. “I’m sure I’ll grow accustomed to the pitching of the waves soon.” She ignored the sentiment that flickered in its wake: Some never do.

  He snorted at that, but she was too miserable to care. “I’ll see if there’s something in the galley that might help.”

  While Matthew was in the galley, the sky faded, slightly at first, then it was more obvious, changing from a bright blue to a steel gray, reminiscent of Nantucket’s persistent fog. She heard a commotion on the starboard side and made her way over to see what it was about. The whaleboat had returned and the crew was climbing the rigging back into the ship. She watched the captain stand at the side of the ship, shouting down to his crew.

  “Why have you returned without the whale?”

  “We need to hunker down, Captain,” one called up. “The skies are darkening.”

  Another shouted, “It’s the boatsteerer, Captain! He sent his harpoon sailing into the whale . . . but forgot to tie the other end of his rope!” The crew laughed, but not in a kind way.

  The captain glared at the boatsteerer. “What did you do, Obadiah?”

  “The harpoon was tied before we left—I know ’twas. The whale disappeared under water, dragging the harpoon and rope with it.” Not much more than a boy, Obadiah looked like he was about to cry. “’Twas m’ father’s harpoon!”

  Even Phoebe could see the crew was casting anxious glances toward the darkening sky. A gray mist had descended, and the wind had started up again.

  Obadiah climbed aboard, a dark look on his face, and then he caught sight of Phoebe. “There! It be that one!” he said to all seamen standing by.

  Shivers began prickling down Phoebe’s spine like icicles dripping from the roof, and she began to slowly back away.

  Obadiah pointed a finger in her direction. “I say it be her doing. She’s brought a curse from the devil himself on this voyage.”

  All eyes turned to Phoebe.

  As the dark side of the storm passed over the Fortuna, the next few hours were torturous for Phoebe. Matthew had brought her some hot tea made of steeped ginger root. The tea helped as long as she drank it, but as soon as she sipped the last drop, the clenching of her stomach returned. She tried to sleep, tried to distract herself, started a letter to her father but gave up when the ink spilled, reviewed memorized Bible verses, read Great Mary’s journal though it was hard to stay focused. She had never felt so sick, nor felt so terrified, in all her life.

  If the ship turned over, would drowning be quick? Merciful?

  Oh, she hoped so.

  Mary Coffin

  8 July 1660

  Father’s judgment is of great concern to me.

  Everything he described about the island has turned out to be incorrect. I don’t know if he wanted so much to believe that Nantucket was his long-lost paradise that he could not see the island with clear eyes, or if he colored the facts to convince others to move. He is a highly persuasive man. Either way, this island is nothing like he described.

  The wind on this island is relentless. I feel it everywhere I turn. I see it in how the trees have been shaped—short and bent, as if they have needed to brace themselves for daily assault. The soil is gray and sandy and salty, lacking in all the fertile ingredients necessary for successful cultivation. The moors are rugged and scrubby. The air is scented with salt. The small ponds that Father assumed to be sources of fresh water for our livestock are actually tidal ponds, rising and falling twice each day. It is a hostile place for farmers. It is a hostile place for ignorant settlers.

  This island, I fear, is a poor choice.

  15 July 1660

  Father has hired Indians to help finish the construction of our house. They are very curious about our tools. They do not seem at all frightening, and it is amusing to try to communicate with them. They are enchanted with Stephen’s blond hair, and reach out to touch it whenever he walks past them. So far, he has not minded. I am glad to have dark hair, as I think I would mind greatly.

  I offered one Indian a pewter trencher to scoop from the large pot of fish chowder I’d made for supper, and he tucked the trencher under his leather shirt. James thinks he thought it was a shield for stray arrows, not a dinnerplate for fish chowder. The Indian grabbed a wooden roof shingle to use for the fish chowder and would not relinquish the pewter trencher.

  Mother thinks the Indians will scalp us in our sleep. They’re not like the mainland Indians, Father reminds her. They are friendly. That is the beauty of Nantucket, the faraway island, he says. The Indians are not troubled by the same problems as those on the mainland.

  I hope he is ri
ght. Mother is convinced he is wrong and cannot be dissuaded from her fears. “There is no place to hide on a sandy island,” Mother said last evening as we sat around the fire.

  “Why are we hiding at all?” Father said. “The Indians have given us no reason to think they are violent. Do you think the settlers would choose lots so far from each other if we had concern of violence? Nay, Dionis! You are letting your fears muddle your mind.”

  “Look at what is happening in Lancaster! You believe we will find a utopia on this island. No place is immune to violence.”

  Mother’s worries matter little to Father. He has become quite short of patience. He used a sharp tone with her, a tone he’s never used with me or the boys. “These Indians have readily received the gospel and become Christians.”

  “All?”

  “No. Not all. But many.”

  “Many?”

  “Some.”

  Father’s impatient responses fail to pacify Mother.

  Wherever we go, it seems there is always something to be afraid of.

  25 July 1660

  Steady rain today.

  By evening, the exterior frame of the house was finished. “It’s so small,” Mother said. And she was right. ’Tis much smaller than our homes on the mainland.

  “There are fewer of us now,” I told her, trying to encourage her. “Only you and Father, James, Stephen, and I. Plenty big enough for the five of us.” But she became so sullen that I see now that was the wrong thing to say. It only reminded Mother of those she left behind on the mainland.

  Mother does not talk much. She feels weighed down, she says, and cannot express what is dampening her spirits. She thinks it is a demon, pinning her down.

  I think I know what weighs on her. Sadness for what she has lost by coming here (many of her children and all of her grandchildren remain on the mainland). Fear of what life will be like on this lonely place.

  I do not think we will be much visited by mainlanders, nor will we be able to visit much. The sea between us is rough, and only slow-sailing vessels can navigate the open stretches where the ocean pours into the Sound. The weather has been so inclement lately that James and Stephen were unable to fish. We have eaten only hardtack and salt pork and cornmeal dumplings for two straight days. I happened upon a thorny thicket of blackberries, plump and shiny and smelling of summer, when I was out for a necessary and that was a joyful discovery for all.

  5 August 1660

  We have been busy in the daytime making our house walls strong and sturdy to endure against the fierce winter winds from the ocean that Edward Starbuck warned us about.

  Today it was not Mother who was complaining, but Father. He is much concerned about the problem of farming, even an adequate vegetable garden for Mother’s cooking. The soil is sandy, the wind is relentless, and although my brother James did plant early in the season, our harvest was meager. James has had to sail to the cape often for supplies.

  14 August 1660

  I was digging for carrots in the garden (the only vegetable that seems to appreciate this sandy soil) and looked up to find Nathaniel at the gate, holding a sack full of beach plum rosehips. “For you and your mother. For your doctoring,” he said in his laconic way, then he turned and went on his way.

  I near fainted.

  22 August 1660

  I had heard much mention of Peter Foulger but had no chance to meet him until today, when his sloop arrived in our small harbour from his home in Martha’s Vineyard. He has been to Nantucket many times before. He was much help to Father and Thomas Macy last year as they surveyed the island. He knows the language of the Indians, and he brings Bibles to them translated in their own language by a man named John Eliot. Father had availed himself much of Peter Foulger, as he translated the talks between them and the Indians.

  I have been much curious about this man, as he sounds quite remarkable, so when I heard his sloop had landed on the beach, I hurried to meet him.

  For once Father did not exaggerate his assessment. Peter Foulger did not disappoint. Stephen hangs on to every word he says, as if the King himself has paid us a visit. I feel the same way.

  Peter Foulger is tall, with broad shoulders and a firm abdomen, and he moves quickly in his stride, as if eager to find out what’s around the corner. Although he is in no way handsome, his eyes have a penetrating quality that is both intriguing and unnerving. He has a boy’s innocent manner and persuasive intensity. His eyes are bright and curious, and he has many accomplishments to his credit, though he is humble: he teaches school, he is a skilled carpenter and can build anything. And he is knowledgeable about milling, which is something our settlement dearly needs.

  He is well learned, and knows surveying, and how to lay out lots, and he is considered a friend by the Indians. Father said that he had known all along that the Indians would welcome us because they thought so highly of Peter Foulger. It is said that he seems able to turn his hand and mind to anything. He is a preacher, schoolmaster, blacksmith, author and poet, surveyor and record-keeper. He is interested in most everything.

  As am I.

  28 August 1660

  Peter Foulger returned to the Vineyard yesterday. I was sorry to see him go.

  Isolation is our customary condition. I suppose that will require us to become extremely self-sufficient.

  Nathaniel Starbuck lives farther inland on the western side of Hummock Pond.

  It is not such a long walk from the Starbucks’ lot to the Coffins’, but it seems too long for Nathaniel.

  11

  7th day of the tenth month in the year 1767

  Growing up on Nantucket, Phoebe had heard her cousins speak of the zigzag course of whaling voyages. The ship was at the mercy of prevailing winds. She even knew the order of the winds: first came the westerlies, then the northeast trades, then the doldrums, then the southeast trades.

  Having left Nantucket late in the season, Phoebe expected the captain to set full sail. She knew all this, but she did not expect to encounter so many squalls that knocked the ship back and forth, causing her to roll and tumble on deck, or in the captain’s cabin. The Fortuna had barely had a break from one storm when the skies darkened and the wind increased, slapping the sails furiously. The waves were so high they broke over the ship; many times the crew had to take to the rigging to avoid a drenching.

  Too weak to move about, too nauseated to keep down even water, Phoebe could only lie curled in the bed in the captain’s cabin, curtains drawn over the small windows, a pillow over her head to muffle the sounds of the storm.

  When the captain came in to change his clothing, drenched by the breaking waves, he told her that one of the crew fell off the masthead to his death below in the swirling sea.

  “Who?”

  “Obadiah, the boatsteerer.”

  Phoebe closed her eyes. She had known Obadiah all his life. His mother, Catherine, ran a bakery out of her home. The only bakery on the island.

  “Can we not put in to land somewhere?” she asked. Please, please, please!

  The captain looked at her as if she was barmy. “We are miles to the windward from the nearest land. We’re much safer at sea in this churning cauldron than if we were to make for land.” As he buttoned his coat, he patted her well-covered knee. “All storms eventually die out, lass.”

  But when? When, when, when? One storm passed and another came in its place. And Phoebe’s seasickness remained. One afternoon, she heard a knock and Matthew entered her room. She grimaced. Every ounce of her body hurt, but he was the last person on earth she wanted to see.

  “I thought I’d check in and see how you were faring.” He looked at her with worried eyes. “No improvement?”

  “None.”

  “Have you eaten today? You must eat, Phoebe.”

  “I feel too ill to eat,” she said, pulling the sheets up to her chin. “I simply want to lie here and be left alone.” Her seasickness was none of his business, and it was humiliating to be seen like this. “If you would plea
se leave, I will be eternally grateful.”

  “I think you’ll feel better if you eat something,” Matthew said, sounding almost sincere, but she knew better. No doubt he enjoyed her suffering.

  “I can’t.”

  “You must. You must eat. Small meals, all the day long. And you must force yourself to go outside. Get some fresh air, some sunlight . . . if it ever shows itself again.”

  She felt tears well up. “I can’t stand the sight of that ugly, chopping sea, heaving and pitching. When I go outside, I realize how small this vessel is, how vulnerable.”

  His eyes grew soft and his concern made her tears harder to blink back. She could handle his mockery, his sarcasm, but not his sweetness.

  “Nonetheless, you must make yourself get out of this sour-smelling cabin and get some fresh air.”

  To her horror, her bottom lip began to shake. “For pity’s sake, just leave,” she managed to choke out.

  “I’ll be back with ginger tea.”

  She turned her face to the wall, finding it impossible to keep looking at the kindness in his face.

  Matthew stood on the companionway of the galley, watching Cook flick his knife against a potato as a long strip of brown skin fell into a bowl. “Have you more ginger? The captain’s wife needs it for seasickness.” The captain’s wife. It was the first time he had said it and it felt clumsy and awkward in his mouth. As if he had tasted something bitter.

  “She don’t belong here.” He held a large, half-peeled potato in his left hand and tipped it back and forth as he spoke.

  “Too late for that. So have you any ginger?”

  The cook dug through a box, pulling up a knotty ginger root. “This is the last of it.”

  The cook would have nothing to do with helping Phoebe, so Matthew boiled the water himself and steeped a few slices of ginger—coins, his mother called them—in the hot water. He carried the tea to Phoebe, glad to leave the rants of the cook about why the captain should not have brought a woman on board. “’Tis no place for a woman, this whaling ship. We don’t want the captain distracted from his duties.”