The captain, Matthew had observed, could not be faulted for being distracted from his duties. He constantly roamed the deck, ordering his young crew around. Now that Matthew saw the condition Phoebe was in, he could not pass blame. The window coverings on the captain’s cabin were pulled tight, the small, cheerless room as dark as a pocket, the air rank and malodorous.
He knocked on the cabin door and entered without waiting for Phoebe to respond. She was curled up in the captain’s bed. Ugh. There it was again, that bitter taste in his mouth. “Drink this. It will help.”
She pulled herself up and took the hot cup from his hands. She took one sip, then another. “Matthew, why doesn’t thee take a turn at watch?”
“I’m an idler.”
“I am aware. I just wondered why thee doesn’t take a turn at watch like the other crewmen.”
He grinned. She hadn’t lost her humor yet. “The idlers are the ones who work by day and sleep at night. Cook, cooper, steward.”
“I don’t see how it would matter—day or night, this ship is rocking and heaving.”
“Oh, it matters plenty. The daylight is critical for our work.”
She sipped more tea and he felt satisfied; a slightly pink color was returning to her ashen face. He turned toward the door, but she stopped him with a question. “Matthew, why did thee leave Nantucket? Thy mother, thy brother, thy cooperage. I thought thee would never leave again.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I told you. I am seeking my fortune. Just like everyone else on this ship, from the cabin boy to the cook.” And that includes you, my dear little gold digger, he thought but didn’t say. He went to the window and pulled the covering open, letting light into the room. Phoebe squinted and moaned. “You need some fresh air in here. Some light.”
“The light hurts my eyes. The salty smell in the wind sickens me.”
That was almost laughable. The cabin smelled worse than salt air!
She opened one eye. “Is it the right wind to make port soon?”
He peered out the window and saw only churning waters, no land in sight. “When a sailor doesn’t know what port he’s heading for, any wind is the right wind.”
She closed her eyes. “That’s not how the saying goes.”
He turned. “How does it go?”
“When a sailor doesn’t know what port he’s heading for, no wind is the right wind.”
Ah. That felt a little too close to home.
The next morning, the violence of the storm had passed, though a strong wind and dark skies remained. Annoyed with Phoebe’s lethargy, the captain said he did not coddle queasy crew and insisted that she get outside at twelve bells sharp to get some fresh air. So in the afternoon, she mustered herself and went outside.
Beyond the clouds were glimmers of blue sky. Phoebe forced herself to take a turn around the deck and breathe in the clean, biting air. She tried to keep her eyes fixed on her shoes and avoid the movement of the ship breaking through the water, and she actually felt a small measure of relief from the cold wind on her face. But as she walked along the upper deck, the crew stopped, stared, then scattered. She knew they considered her bad luck. Foolish boys! If she weren’t feeling so poorly, she would tell them so herself. She hadn’t eaten anything all day, yet her stomach heaved at the salty scent of the air. She went to the side of the ship, squeezed her eyes shut, and took in great gulps of air. She was so weak from vomiting that she barely had the strength to hold on to the railing.
Suddenly she heard shouts of “Fire! Fire!” and the deckhands scurried to grab buckets of water, rushing to the galley. The captain and the first mate bolted down the steps toward the galley, just as Cook came through the door and spotted Phoebe. He pointed a long finger at her. “She is bad luck!” Cook yelled over the shriek of the wind. “She is the reason we are suffering such torment.”
Phoebe felt the narrowed eyes of every deckhand fix on her. Fix and stay.
Cook had taken an instant dislike to Phoebe. He was a vile man, coarse and vulgar, and sent out sprays of spittle as he cussed and complained at her. She reported his behavior to the captain and he told her he would speak to him about it, but she doubted he had done so because Cook continued with his uncouth attitude toward her. The next morning, she was hanging on to the rail, having lost her breakfast overboard, when he came beside her and spoke in a low voice. “I’ve got a surefire cure for seasickness.”
She wiped her mouth and looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He grinned and pulled out a string that had a piece of pork fat dangling at the end. “Swallow it, and I will pull it up again. If the symptoms return, the process repeats.” He leaned close to her ear. “Over and over and over.”
“That’s disgusting,” Phoebe said.
Cook grinned. “I’ve been whaling long enough to know which greenies will recover from the seasickness and which ones won’t.” As he left her, he laughed and laughed.
Horrible man. Horrible, horrible, horrible.
Phoebe also saw that first mate Hiram Hoyt was harsh with sailors if they did not behave well. He had seemed like a perfectly reasonable young man on Nantucket, if not obsequious, and he was certainly fawning around the captain. Once on the ship, he turned into another man. He had no qualms about using force to obtain obedience. He swore and threatened them in a manner that shocked Phoebe. He would fetch them up for a slight infraction and order them to have ten stripes on their bare backs with a hideous-looking whip.
One rainy afternoon, Phoebe observed the first mate lashing the cabin boy, Silo, and objected. “What has he done to deserve such treatment?”
Hiram Hoyt gave her an apologetic look. “He stole a loaf of bread from Cook.”
“He’s only a boy. A growing boy! Hunger does not warrant a whipping! I insist thee stop this!”
“If it isn’t dealt with now, it’ll only encourage similar pilfering among the crew. Best to give troublemakers a taste of the cat.”
Outraged, Phoebe went in search of the captain, but Matthew stopped her. “Who do you think is ordering such punishments?”
“Surely not the captain. He would never do such a thing.”
He gave her that maddeningly patronizing look that usually accompanied his critiques of the Friends. “Surely you’re mistaken, Phoebe.”
The captain was working with a crew to master the dropping of the whaleboat—not a good time to interrupt him—so she went to rescue Silo and found him alone on the tween deck, sitting crouched on a coil of rope, with his hands dangling between his legs. As she drew closer, she saw that he was fashioning something in a piece of scrimshaw with a small knife. “There you are, Silo.”
He deliberately avoided looking at her, though she knew he heard her by the restless tapping of his feet. Phoebe took in the slump of his shoulders—how cold and thin he looked!—and her heart felt tender toward him.
Phoebe put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. He flinched, and she drew away her hand. “Silo, would thee let me put healing salve on thy back?”
He looked up at her with those large, round brown eyes, dropped his knife and scrimshaw, and peeled off his shirt. Phoebe’s stomach twisted at the sight of his torn-up back, red welts and open sores. She collected her wits and opened the jar of salve she had found in the cabin.
“I’ll be as gentle as possible,” she said softly. “Let me know if I hurt thee.”
Silo was utterly still as she put the salve onto the wounds. He remained so stoic it distressed her—he was but a child, and had no tears, no voice.
Silo became devoted to Phoebe, waiting on her hand and foot, eager to do her bidding. Unfortunately, she had no bidding to do. She finally thought to ask if he could find her extra pots, and the dear boy had brought in every kind of pot or bucket that he could scavenge on the ship. That afternoon, when the captain came into the cabin, he stilled, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Captain, I’m glad thee is here. I have made a list of suggestions to help manage the crew.”
The
captain arched an eyebrow.
“I thought it might be wise to fine the sailors when they use foul language. After all, they are young and need shaping, and I do not think lashing or seizing is the answer. Nor does it seem to be effective. And then, there is First Day. I believe thee should hold regular Meetings. Thee has been neglectful of the Sabbath.”
The captain looked at her as if a fish had spoken, then stumbled over a bucket, knocked over a pot, and swore like a . . . hardened sailor. Phoebe grimaced. Such language!
“I can’t walk in m’ own quarters!”
Phoebe started to explain, but the captain interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. “Save your apology. I just need the logbook.” He moved things around on the narrow desk, found the logbook, and strode out, slamming the door behind him.
Save your apology. Not “save thy apology.” Not “how is thee faring today?”
She looked in the mirror. Her face no longer had the youthful glow she’d carried but was the pallor of snow. No wonder the captain wanted little to do with her.
And what did she want? She wanted to be safe and not seasick and on dry land. She wanted to be back on Nantucket, strolling along the shops of quaint Main Street, watching the fog clear as the sun warmed the air. Walking toward the beach, inhaling the heady scent of rugosa roses. She wanted to stand at the water’s edge (not on it) and listen to the slosh and swoosh of the ocean. She wanted to have rose hip tea with her father in their keeping room, as was their habit each afternoon. She wanted the captain to look at her the way he used to, with warmth and appreciation in his eyes. And she wanted more from him . . . she wanted . . . she wanted . . . she did not rightly know.
Waves of sickness were crashing over her fast and hard today. Her stomach was empty, her head full of wool, her legs thick and heavy. She crawled back into bed, pulled her knees up and faced the wall, and pushed the wanting away.
Mary Coffin
3 September 1660
Mother and I spend much time searching for herbs to doctor us: feverfew, bayberry, nettles (how I despise them!), wormwood, horseradish, juniper berries, angelica, scurvy grass, dill, wild viburnum, cranberries. Then comes crushing, grinding, boiling, steeping, straining. ’Tis a great deal of labor for imagined illnesses.
I tell her that Coffins are a hearty lot, but Mother fears for winter, so far from civilization. I have a worse fear: Mother’s vile concoctions might be a worse affliction than enduring the sickness.
Heppy once said her sister would take wild tansy and soak it in buttermilk, to make her complexion fair. If I can find wild tansy, I will try it.
4 September 1660
Wild tansy looks much like wild carrot, I have learned. Mother wondered why my face had an orange cast to it and did I have a rash and if so, did I need duck grease to rub on it? I did not, I told her. The last time I rubbed duck grease on a rash made by horrible nettles, the Indians’ dogs followed me everywhere.
26 September 1660
I have never appreciated a hearth as much as the one Father built in our house, especially as the weather is turning cold. At night we gather around the warm hearth and watch the sparks rise up the chimney. The bright glow of the fire draws others. Now and then, neighbors lift the latch and take their place in our family circle for a quiet chat. On Sundays, Father will light a bayberry candle and read from his father’s Bible.
I have seen little of Nathaniel.
3 October 1660
There was frost on the rooftop this morning. The water bucket on the bench outside the house had a layer of ice on top. James had to crack it to wash his hands and face. Wood is so valuable and so scarce on this island that Father refuses to heat the house during the night—he says any and all wood is needed for building, not for burning. There is little wood to be chopped. If a straight and tall tree is found, it is swiftly cut down and used for houses or fence posts.
14 October 1660
Today a damp cast to the air promised snow. Mud has frozen into hard, gray ridges that make walking treacherous. Clouds the color of oyster shells loom overhead and darker clouds crowd the sea’s horizon. I dread winter.
15 October 1660
A freeze has trapped us inside and I am sorely restless.
The winds are so fierce and the dark is so very dark. And this is not yet wintertide! ’Tis so bitterly cold that I put on my dress and stockings while still under the covers when I woke this morning. Stephen laughed and said I was a poor excuse for a pioneer. Mayhap, I told him, but at least I will not freeze as I dress!
I wore my cloak all morning long, partially to keep warm, partially to tweak Father. He refuses to keep the fire banked in the night. Firewood is too dear, he says.
And what if his children freeze to death in their sleep? Are we not more dear than a few sticks of wood?
18 October 1660
Father found the ink in his inkpot had frozen solid this morning. He had to thaw it over the fire. With that inconvenience, he is willing to keep the hearth fire banked throughout the night if Stephen and I will scavenge the beaches daily for driftwood.
Life begins again!
22 October 1660
The strangest thing happened today. Stephen and I had taken the pony and cart down toward Tuckernuck Island (which Father owns, a fact that he feels bears repeating each time the island is brought up—but I digress, as I often do!) to gather driftwood for the kitchen fire.
Stephen spotted something jutting out on the horizon. Then we saw a flash of fire, and we knew it was a vessel in trouble. And if a ship was in trouble, it meant the lives of the sailors were in dire straits. Most sailors cannot swim; they just hold their breath and hope to drown quickly. I learned that fact from the men who rode Father’s ferry back in Massachusetts.
Stephen unhooked the pony and jumped onto its back and rushed to find someone to help. He came across Nathaniel Starbuck. The two of them hurried home to fetch a dory and rowed in it to rescue the survivors. It was not easy rowing because the wind was blowing hard against them. But they reached the sloop, which had been stranded on the Tuckernuck shoal, and they brought back three wet and cold seamen. The poor men were half frozen, and unable to speak for the longest time. Mother made them sit huddled around the fire. As they warmed up, Mother fed them broth, and soon they were sufficiently warmed to tell their story.
They had sailed around the cape and got blown west by a strong wind, so strong it cracked their mast in two. They saw an island (Tuckernuck) and decided to make land, but didn’t realize there were shallow sandbars. That was when their boat became stranded.
Suddenly, one of the seamen remembered his bird. Nathaniel had brought the cage into the dory and ran to the beach to bring it back up. It was a gray pigeon, and it too was nearly frozen. The seaman said it was a very special bird, his good-luck bird, and that it could recognize words. Father scoffed, so the seaman grabbed my slate and wrote out a few words. Would you believe that when he said a word, the pigeon pecked at it? I laughed at that. What a wonder! A reading bird.
“If a pigeon can read,” I said, “surely there’s no excuse for any human being to not be able to read.” And then I clapped my hands over my mouth, for my own dear Granny Joan could not read! How addlebrained of me, how insensitive.
Nathaniel left the house without saying goodbye to anyone. Not even a backward look.
He makes me confused. My heart flutters around him like a moth to a candlelight, my cheeks grow warm, my stomach goes swoony. But it seems he is either hot or cold to me. Most often, cold.
28 October 1660
The weather was pleasant today, a reprieve, so I indulged in a long afternoon walk. I happened across a marvelous tree. Tall and straight, and it grows straight up in spite of the wind that forces most island trees to bend over. I believe it is an oak tree, and I suspect it is very old. I have decided not to let Father know of this tree. He would chop it down by nightfall. This tree has more of life ahead of it than being a beam to a house, as noble an end as that might
be for most trees.
Not this tree.
30 October 1660
Edward and Nathaniel Starbuck brought four bagged geese to Mother and she was very pleased. She uses every bit of the goose, from feathers to feet. Goose grease is her favorite remedy for skin conditions.
As Father and Edward smoked a pipe, Nathaniel went outside to wash his hands of goose. I slipped out to take a clean towel to him. “Was not that reading pigeon a curious thing?”
He dipped his hands in the water. “Aye.”
“I wonder if such a smart bird could also be taught to talk.”
“Most people,” he said, as he wiped his hands on the towel I had brought him, “think there is already more than enough talking in this world.” He handed me the towel and went back inside to join the men.
Humph!
5 November 1660
The sun came out and warmed the world. Winter has been put off, at least for another day.
I went walking toward Hummock Pond today and happened upon Nathaniel Starbuck, chopping down scrub oak and loading it into his pony cart. He seemed pleased to see me and stopped his work. “What are you doing down this way, Mary Coffin?” he asked.
“We have been so busy that I have not had opportunity to venture out much. I could not bear to waste this glorious day indoors, so I allowed myself a little time to see more of this place.”
Nathaniel seemed to not know what more to say and started to pick up his axe to return to his work, so I quickly spoke again. “How are you faring? Does this island suit you?”
He took his time answering, which is typical of Nathaniel, I have discovered. Unlike me, he thinks through his thoughts before releasing them. He turned in a slow circle, his hands on his hips, as he surveyed the flat, open moor filled with poverty grass and scrub oaks, then he slowly turned in the opposite direction, peering out at the gray sea. “Aye, ’tis a fine place. No better place on earth.”
Then he dipped down and picked up his axe and returned to his wood chopping. I left him to his work and continued on my walk, pondering his assessment.
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